She lies amid the promises and pillows
on her side, fetally.
Nightdress riding her thigh and haunches,
exposing that which drove him to her.
The scent of her collides with shame
over his nature and acts.
Or was it a dream,
her whispers of sad refusal.
He feels the cold leeching from her hips, shivers,
then joins her to him under covers, encircles her,
his fingers as a snake's tongue, searching, tasting,
the warmth of her breast a chimera.
He feels the cold impaling steel,
dips his fingers in the holy font,
and blesses himself in crimson.
Also presented at "To Grow Is To Be Anxious, Exile Edition".