With cold, long fingers he touches my neck,
And traces simple patterns over my chest...
He stops his scythe's sharp blade over my heart,
And pulls me closer to bite my tongue.
His eyes are hollow and void of light and hope,
There's nothing to be felt inside his shallow lungs,
For when the night is young and he has had his fix,
He'll leave me breathless as if to promise
His return, his need for more,
And my death, despite implore.
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