"Come're. Come here, to me." Pretending not to see, to hear, averting her gaze away, her head shakes side to side, lips pursed into a thin, tight line.
He smiles, and waits, she would come. They always come to him; eventually.
Afternoon visitor upset with his lurking shaking her helpless fist and cursing. Offering exchange - a deal - foolish promises. He looks away, as if he cannot see, or hear not even bothering to pretend to care.
Persistant whispers: "Come're. Come to me." He would not chase her down, Her pupils so large in the night - so pretty; delicate flower; lovely.
Coaxing, "Come....come now to me". From her bed she rises into his embrace, thinking, "This is not so bad". He savors her sweet breath, tenderly offering escape. She remembers she's beautiful and she smiles.
Morning comes and they are gone fragile old bones lay alone
The kiss of death
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