The pressure fraught with fear at the implications of the act

Punctuated by the cold of unforgiving steel

Your skin, it gives

Succumbing, to the razor’s edge

The relief of finality chased by the delicate immersion of scalpel into skin

Not a tearing or searing, no, its a finer kind of pain


Then heat

The cresting of first dark blood

Scenting the air

I cover it with my mouth

The sharp inhale of your breath perfectly syncopated to the pull of my lips

A new hard to replace the steel

My teeth urgently coax more of that dark communion from your chest

Sealed, with my crimson kiss

A most delicious meal in three courses

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