My Mistress' long black gown

is torn in places, leaving frayed

patches throughout, mud is splattered

randomly, afraid i seek her comfort

all while her dress

ripples in a gentle breeze.

In contrast, my Mistress' skin

is pale and dry, stretched

to its breaking over bony fingers.

Her lips are cracked

and almost void of colour.

Icy cold breath, visable as it passes,

dialated pupils stare, never blinking

but they don't see me for

i am nothing, they haven't already seen.

A hand upon my back, her brittle nails

run along my skin, trying to find a way in.

She rubs against me, as we

embrace, a low moan

escapes her and as our eyes meet

she runs a long, slow tongue

along her wrist and kisses it better.

We don't have to speak, i know

what she wants, what she's come for,

I'd give it to her if i could,

but that would mean giving up everything else

and committing myself to her,

forever.