He slides his tongue across my cheek...a dry, rasping path across my face. Dark eyes, ruby lips, a heart of ice, a soul of stone. He moves on stumps, hands glide across space and time. He watches my breaths, watches my pulse, waits in amber and shadows for chances and changes. He hides behind walls, stands in corridors, speaks in motions...slides his dry tongue along my throat. He flexes his wings, dark, ancient, and leather. They surround the curious, flatter the needy, angel wings are the servants of deliverance, the standard of corruption. He slides his tough, dry tongue into my ear. He believes that it will flatter, believes that it will weaken, but I wince at the motion, wince at the insistence. Life is a bed of roses that never formed, a crown of thorns that was always blunt...and spent. It doesn't matter how many steps he tells me that I have climbed, I will always be just about to take that first one. Still, he slides his tongue across my heart, he feels the pump. I understand the ice-laden consequence...so I let him.
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