HE LAY STILL

He lay still. On our bed. The bed where we shared our intimacy, lust and power. Face so beautiful. Pale, chestnut curls, perfectly contoured lips, luscious amount of lashes. He lay still. I admired his beauty. I felt a surge of energy within me. I enjoyed the surge. He lay still. He is naked under the mountable amount of satins. He is naked over the ruby-colored damask. His body is white, slender and beautiful. He lay still. All I see is beauty. All I see is lust. All I see is power. His face peaceful and beautiful. Had it not been for the red jagged tear on the neck, one would say that my love was simply sleeping. My eyes, creep, aware, remembered what just had happened. Clutching the broken glass to my right, I felt the burning sensation of its wound as the broken glass penetrate me. He lay still. He lay lifeless. Literally, lifeless. Even if I loved him dearly. He do not love me. He lay still. He plans to marry my Lady Agatha. I enrage upon hearing the news. He wishes to end it to-night. He wishes to change. He wishes to be faithful. Lie! No one is faithful. One is only master in keeping illegal affairs private. He wishes to end it to-night. After this one last time to-night. He wishes to end it to-night. But I wishes to have him all to mine for ever. Mine for ever. For ever mine. Only mine.