The Gothic-style
dust from remote stars
concentrates into her body:
today loving and warm,
tomorrow goes naughty,
seeking a home,
she opens her vein
to make a bloodrain
dropping back to the Universe.

Speaking in a low voice
he is translating a thought,
trying to hold the plot:
she's sleeping now, and here.
Nothing is more dear
than the grip of this dust.
What's there for her to trust?
Blooming and fresh,
she's dreaming of rotten flesh.
This sprinkling of dust
carries ultimate passion
about destruction and rust.

'Darling, you look like Death..'
he says.
'You really think so?'

(Give her a hug.)
Flattery everyone loves.
She is back to her daily plug.
She is back to her normal routine:
lectures about the rules for dust to spin;
about the charm of old broken things;
about the evolution chain
and it's missing links.

She wants to be missing as well.
Who knows,
what is the right way to spell
the word holding bits of stardust together?
Don't mention love.
Your darling's breath moves a little feather
of your fear.
She is nearly near,
she's just had her poison,
she's sleeping. Don't bother
trying to wake her up -
she is away so far...
Your endless confusion,
your fragile illusion,
the dust of your star.
Your trap.