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44.  The Gift

 
He waits on the lace-iron bench
By the bee peppered Egyptian mignonette
Basking in the tart raspberry aroma
Of memories that haven't happened yet,
Fingering so tenderly the black pearl buttons
Of the shirt he will tear from a Christmas box.
 
The vampire does not choose, but is chosen.
A soul can not be consumed incompliant
Which makes the pale fading flesh
So tremulously delicious.
 
He paces the shell speckled macadam
Unnerved by the manic pace of his shallow breath
Surrendering just below his level of perception,
Closing sea foam eyes to see a pink sunset
Broken eggishly dripping down our black hyacinth yard.
His pulse adds an awkward third syllable.
How franticly his heart thrashes for me.