It's cold here in your bones,
where the echoes of you stir.

Their whispers sweetest promises,
intent far from demure.

The clime, it doesn't bother me,
wrapped as I am, in your skin.

The coveting of such a blessing,
is perhaps my greatest sin.

I sup from a grail ever-empty,
my stomach a ravening beast.

Gleaming eyes 'pon table far,
from which I may not feast.

Yet....

Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 13th of Omeian, in the year 2 AC.