A pair of cracked snowflakes bleed behind a veil of crimson butterflies. Her face is a heaven littered with dead angels. I bathed in their blood, slept upon their severed wings imagining a place called innocence. I see flashes of pale skin writhing in bruised ecstasy. I am the immortal disciple of a dying god. Each time she forgives me it becomes easier. Her smile has gone, and in the bedroom, there is only the hollow scraping of skeletal lovers, dreaming of skin.