Thirst

I have watched her for days through the intermittent flutter of her curtains. She wears a white cotton nightgown with lace at the neck, buttoned up tight to her throat. One hundred strokes every night without fail. Her dark hair unbound takes the brush like a lover takes a caress. She turns out her light, leaving me with the moon. I feel its pull. The fluid in my veins rising in a red tide, humming in my ears. Tonight I shall visit her. As dry as a leaf I flutter in the wind ... and in the window ... and wait in the corner of the room. I am the shadow of a branch, the movement of a cloud across the moon. I wait. Her breath is quiet. She is still. A flutter of the curtains and I move skittering across the floor. I am the shadow under her bed. She moves gently on the bed above. I smell her rich and warm. I am the shadow of a cloud between her face and the moon. I inhale her sweet exhalation. I exhale her next inhalation. She sleeps deeply now. She sleeps until I leave. Still I am gentle as I pull back the covers. Still I am gentle as I lift the nightgown. Still I do not touch her as I lean close to smell all the secret odor, to feel the warmth radiating from the special places where her fluid, like mine, rises to the moon's pull. I part her legs and leaning closer listen to the pulse in the femoral. and follow it up to the heart. Enough. I am taking too much pleasure. I close her legs and cover her. I turn her face away from me, brusquely, but wait ... That sweet gentle venous pulse. So dear, so sweet. I stop and kneeling lay my cheek against the gentle throb. It beats against my skin like a lullaby. For a moment I sink almost to sleep. Then the pang hits. Sharp. Oh if touch were enough . . . But, I lean in, and gently pierce, drawing one drop, and rolling on my tongue the taste of life in one precious globule, that is not red to me, but black forever under the moon.