White Roses; Painted Red.
You said it so absolutely, the typewriter of my mind ended the sentence there.
You twinged briefly. Alone; you and I.
I gently tongued the wound until it flowed freely-- as smooth as red wine made entirely of life. Your life. Entoxicating me--
I've pour you gently; the resevoir of crimson overflowing into a simple dixie cup, the sides coated in a color; lighter than that which pooled at the bottom.
I must mingle gently with you in this cup of absolution, and you cringe-- worse as I cut my arm than when I cut yours-- and I am disgusted at the absolute black of my inner fluid, so far from the velvet from yours.
It doesn't flow and linger on the side of the cup as yours did, it merely sticks. Thick and ashen.
But as it flows gently into yours it is calmed and still, and is now a reflective ruby ocean to be lost in. A reflection.
My blood, your blood, our blood.
Somehow- this doesn't seem done...
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