He reached out to hand her a rose.
His pale fingers trembled.
In the darkness, she could only see his eyes, staring at her with curious fire. She only saw his teeth, glinting white from reflected moonlight.
She ducked her head from his gaze. Contemplated the rose.
His hand was still there.
Drops of red wine blood clung to his fingers. His ivory fingers still clutched the stem. He was cloaked in the blackness of the night.
Her hand moved and gently touched his ice cold wrist,turning it slowly in her hand. The rose was still there, waiting. His marble cold skin was a mausoleum of memories he’d buried beneath. His green veins thrummed and pulsed with life.
She stroked his hand, smoothing the trembling fingers.
The rose dropped from their intwined fingers. It landed without a sound. The cold earth reached up to embrace the symbol.
She cradled his hand, his fingers still red. She smoothed them out, sculpted them to fit hers.
His blood painted pictures of love on her palm.
She turned to his eyes. His blue flecked grey ones. Her green brown kaleidoscope met his.
She smiled. White teeth.
Red lips on pink lips.
The rose lay forgotten.