and mama's on the high fence
singin', "boy, you'd best watch out,
she'll drown you in your sin"

You're drowning.

Not literally, of course, but sometimes - when her name slices through the jarred crack (that little sliver of space in your brain from sane to insane) and syllables crawl themselves up from the dirty spaces between your teeth and burn the cells of your tongue and your lungs slide down your ribcage as you try to not breathe - you wonder if vampires can die by suffocation.

You've seen them torn apart limb by limb; bleached to nothing but a pile of ash by Holy Water; an angel's seraph blade stabbed through their heart. It is almost stupid to think of such an oxymoron like this. Then again, bad habits go hard and you're nothing but an exception, so maybe she just might understand.

Or maybe she won't.

(She probably won't because she has so many other things to think about and as much as you may want to be you know you are not one of those things because she cares about you and loves you and no matter what happens at the end of the day you are still each other's Ying and Yang so you should be happy she doesn't have another thing to worry about except you aren't.)

You recall a conversation between your old Chemistry teacher and one of those back-of-the-classroom peers. The kid had finally lifted his head from beneath the desk - you'd thought he'd been hiding a cigarette, the room smelled oddly like nicotine and buttered noodles and burnt matches that day - and asked why, if humans needed so little to survive, then why did they still want what they couldn't have?

The teacher had been stupefied. Because, he'd finally answered, in this day and age, there is such an uneven balance between a want and a need that, in most cases; we're completely blindsided by how much want overpowers need that we don't notice the imperfectionism: the cracks in the foundation that haven't been sealed up.

And, right now, if that means closing your eyes against the off-white yellowish glow pulsing of torch flames licking the back of your eyelids of a newly resurrected Idris (afraid to open them because watching him watching you watching her makes you feel sick to the core), there is not a doubt in Hell that you'll be there to take whatever piece of her soul is left and coddle it like your own.

Every single time.