Her eyes wander the room.
She is alone. Witching hour.
Grabbing for the sheets – to hide her face –
Death sits heavy on the tips of her toes
Her breath
in the palm of Death
He says nothing
as he reaches for her finger tips
She pulls – away –
though, only far enough
that His heat still radiates – electrifying
A smile, creeps, across her face
making a journey
from one ear
to the other
She finds comfort in his empty hood
Don’t leave
Not one bone has shifted
His heat still illuminating
Standing over her, she could feel His breath
wrap around her body –like the womb
No fear left inside.
She was His for the taking.
Closes her eyes to the sound of emptiness,
His fingertips trace her own.
His hood weighted on top of her chest
This is it.
One last breath –
She woke.
