Darling, why do you turn away? Do they scare you, my eyes? They shouldn't. I'd have thought you would have grown accustomed to them. Is it my skin? Too pale for your liking? You used to think I was exotic, exiting. Perhaps it is my lips, my soft, crimson lips? No, it's my eyes. I understand now. You fear me, don't you? What I can do, what you do, what we do. They're too deep for you. That deep blue-green the ocean turns when the moon is reborn each twenty-eighth night. The swirling mess of foam and darkness that could swallow you up and destroy you and move on before ever feeling your presence. You fear death, darling, that's what it is, and you see death in my mortal eyes. What a petty fear-- as though you could escape it by turning away. No, you can't escape death; it's inevitable. Even some nights I hear Azrael's gentle whispers, trying to take me home to the womb that is both life-giving and extinguishing. Oh! You shiver? The night does grow cold; perhaps we should go back inside to the warmth, away from the ebony skies and seas that scare you so. Would you feel better if I close my eyes? If you'd like we may go to bed now; in sleep we cannot feel life nor death--but perhaps that is what terrifies you most of all.
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