Scarlet runs like freshly poured wine. 
A mound of flesh heaves at the current.
A teasing aroma that tongues its cheek and puckers on the lips.
A stain on my flesh by the urgency of its arousal, the painted film as luscious as Spring.
I bear my throat to the skin that yields and gushes the blood from within the membrane.
A gorgeous family to tear and suckle, the model proprietors of taste.
The ravine of their deaths makes a sweet lament; a hush that falls, like dewy night.