He sits at the table with Angels
But fairer than any winged creature
            of God

As a statue might, if statues had inside them,
The feeling that shines in his two sculptured eyes.
          Emeralds are Forever.

His touch is the pooling of Moonlight
As he turns another page of his rotting and musted novel
The Pages crackle audibly beneath his fingertips
          His devouring eyes
The thin, delicate smile of his lips
It's enough to make me smile;
            or die.

The breaking of his flesh beneath my lips,
And the Blood that struck the roof of my mouth
           slides, like silk, down my throat
And pools, like the cream of the living
           in the bowels of my limbs

This frail being, a shell of a once empty man
with the beauty of an Angel's Vision
Beauty so simple, that I want to weep
           and turn my head away
Before he can see the crimson that rains from
           my statue eyes

Does he ever see?

How can eyes so ethreal be so blind?