Desolate. There is a space in which she sits, half removed.
An occassional ache for what once was.

She yearns to sacrifice her lips to a kiss that lingers and burns and turns her stomach inside out.
She remembers those beautiful butterflies that appear deep below, fluttering by and causing her cunt to twitch and throb.

Fingertips that graze those tender places that send electricity churning through her body.
Those same fingertips raking flesh, teeth sinking into barren flesh. Inflaming pleasure and pain.

Frustrated desires sit like a cold weight weighing her down.
Restless she sleeps.
Nightscapes haunt her visions.

Waking in a sweat with lust and the need to give herself to a phantom that lays beside her while she sleeps only to awake and find him gone.
He takes what he wants with no thought for the waste he lays in his path.

It never quite hurts enough.
She is haunted.