Dewdrop

A tiny, silver drop of dew balances on the very edge of a deep, crimson petal. The rose is at its best, filling the still night air with a luxurious, intoxicating scent. Starlight glows within the drop, a pink tinge in its colourless orb.

With a tender finger you prise the dew drop from its perch on the petal, and holding it up, I inspect its watery inner workings. The small, intricate miracle trapped within its confines shines out in the heavy air.

Gently, the drop of star-lit dew is passed to rest at the base of my neck, the hollow between the collar bones. It holds a slight icy chill as it rolls down my rising chest. A cool finger traces its path, cutting in to my pale skin.

A glistening trail of dark blood creeps out. Sad eyes holding the moon's beauty lead to a feather-light touch of lips on lips before they drift away to purify the pale skin of its dark gash.

The silence of the night remains still as the roses seem to drink in the shroud of darkness. Dew forms to moisten crimson lips, luring two pairs together for a tender nighttime embrace.