The Wicked Game

She sits there across the room and stares into the rainy darkness that I call home.

Elegance moves with her muscles.

The twinkle of her eyes leaves for only a moment as she bats those long eyelashes with the slightest emotion.

Her long olive fingers brush her milk chocolate hair leaving her smooth neck bare.

Her bare lips part slightly to exhale the moist air that I slowly breathe in.

She knows what I think, I’ve memorized how her heart beats. Softly, quietly, I hear it.

I know the wicked game she plays.

I know the lines, the rules, the words that will spill out of her treacherous mouth, but it's the heroin I cannot quit.

I stare, unmoved. She, unknowing.

The the sound of silence rings in my ears, a beautiful noise.

Badump badump badump. Badump. Badump.

“Unknowing, unsuspecting, my dear.”

A motionless contest. A silent auction. A brave action. A game of Russian Roulette.

One move, and death will overcome our lungs, our hearts. But I am already dead.

“Fear me dear, for I am death.”