My fingers play, swift and sure, across his chest.

It rises. Up. Down. Slow. Steady. Life.

He, beautiful in perfection, deserves that life the most. But he is a lamb. The masses have built the altar. And they can only wait.

My hand dances up, across the breastbone, over the collarbone. It rests at the throat, speckled with bruised claims of love.

I should throttle him.

But I won’t. No, I shall kiss him with poisoned lips and fling away their fruits born from fear. I’ll take his hand, and we shall flee from all of them.

Deplorable, isn’t it?