Darling Dracul
Tell me why, my dear, why you must only visit me, not in the morning, nor the evening. Must you visit me while I dream, not unaware, nor aware of your graces across my flesh? You seem but a dream to me, passing unconsciously as the night, yet as a dream, I have such passing memories. For these images, I hold dear. As I lie between the fingers of slumber, often there are nights from the sliver of my eyelids, I have seen your dear shadow glide across the wallpaper, mingling with the crimson and roses, graceful and without haste, soundless as shadows are. Closer, your air grows closer, above your sweet Ophelia (as I have heard you whisper) do you bow, rose petals frigid as the night, nestle into the crook of my neck. Softly do you drink of life, slowly you become me as I become you. With a sweet caress of fading flesh, you cast a stray strand of locks aside, in a fleeting moment, dearest Luna catches your eye, a glisten of gold I see as you gaze preciously upon your hallowed Ophelia. I reach out for you, yet all I find I may grasp is the darkness, returned to me as it receives your place, low I feel your sweet gaze still upon me. Tell me, my dear, how I may look upon you, and not see you. Tell me, my dear, how I may feel you, and yet you seem to not be there. May it all be a dream, part of my illness perhaps, as such it seems? My family has told me so, many times, that your presence is but a dream, a result of anemia, but I cannot believe them. No. For I have felt you too many times. Even now as I write this I feel you. Closer, I feel you drawing as dusk bleeds across the horizon, breathlessly, I lie in wait for you, my dear, and you shall find me waiting as always.
Your sweet Ophelia.