Alana

Two knives are before us.

One blade away, pointing to you, and another pressed lightly to my own heart.

Your hand on one hilt and mine on the other.

My blood has run cold, and my mouth become dry.

Your eyes, bloodshot, are mirrors of my own.

My skin ashen with fear while your's is wrought pale.

Each passing moment is a fool's lifetime.

The daggers find their mark, and hit home in our chests.

Death becomes a patient guide for murder's long slumber.