The Hunger

The taste of life yet freshly remembered —
my tongue aches for more,
my throat burns to again know
the flowing gratification of a thirst
that shall never, for long, be sated...
and so I search, for she
who can preserve me, if only for a time...

I know her immediately;
she’s quite the little vamp...
with long, luxuriant, chocolate brown hair,
and eyes that are dark and deep,
and soft yet somehow intense —
in them I sense an ancient wisdom
of the art of pleasing a man...
or, as far as that goes, a woman...
The sight of her dexterous and mischievous tongue,
slowly gliding over her full lips
before tauntingly biting at the lower one,
arouses such a desire within me
that I almost wish our roles were reversed...
Her flesh is smooth, tanned, flawless,
and completely consumable;
everything about her form is perfection —
except perhaps her legs,
which are really just a bit too much on the skinny side —
from her delightful scapula,
to the small of her back,
over the loving curve of her posterior,
and, around to the front,
a gloriousness of belly that is surely unrivaled
in its magnificent splendor —
a grand display to make saints weep
and angels fall;
her breasts are large,
but not so much so as to be unwieldy,
and I find myself becoming most fond of them —
yet not so fond as she, it is clear...
she is almost thoroughly self-absorbed —
the attention she pays me
is but for her own selfish gratification,
as if it amuses her to think
that she holds me in her power;
if she could only realize that it’s all about me,
perhaps there would be a reason for her to live...

Holding her captive in the prison of my embrace,
feeling the heat of her body against mine,
I slowly, gently, run my lips over her neck —
all too aware of the crimson ambrosia
coursing through the arteries in her throat —
and, at last, surrender to the hunger...
she becomes rigid beneath me,
a moan of pleasured pain escaping her lips
as she urgently clings to me,
almost as if in fear that to let go would mean her life —
which is really pretty ironic, if you think about it —
and with the heat of her blood
washing down my chin and over our bodies
in an unholy christening
that does not sacrifice her life
but merges it with my own,
I am unable to refrain from shuddering
with an unbridled passion;
my mind buzzing with alacritous clarity —
I have never felt so alive!...
And, as I, she is filled with a sexual ecstasy
that ever builds, seemingly without end,
to the very heights of supernal experience...

And so I drink of her,
consuming a nectar fit for the gods,
until the fire of her soul burns low
and begins to flicker dangerously;
my thirst remains,
yet does not nag at me as it had,
and I allow her to peacefully fade away...
I lie in bloated contentment,
watching as the final spark of life in her eyes
quickly turns from vivifying fulfillment
to stark and horrific realization
before being extinguished entirely;
she is better off as a part of me —
so very lacking in the gentle human graces, as she was —
and surely she will be happier for our joining...
or, at any rate, I certainly am...