purple-warlock

It’s dark, where I am. Not cold, for cold gives you solace. Not hot, as in a hammer striking molten iron to make a sword. Not warm, pointlessly and deliberately harsh and itchy.

"Who are you?" It cooed.

Its eyes behind my back

spoke to the intent of its curiosity,

something brushed against my hand

in a low yet dangerous level of ferocity.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

I rang the doorbell to your heart, 

and throughout your house it rang, 

a bouquet of astilbes in one hand 

and in the other a pink dove. 

I carved it of cherry wood just for you, 

I always admired

your blueish-red skin

which complemented your fire-green eyes.

The snake-like hues

in your eyes,

which I had once found beautiful,

now angled themselves toward your demise,