Redness.
by Aidan "Darkangel" Rhiannon

	In a world of black, where shadows lie thickly and all things seem as dark, as false, as flat as silhouettes against a colorless sky, I crave bright redness.
	
	I am drowning in that black.  It stains my wings, tar-thick, dragging me to the ground where it oozes up around me.  My heart seems, in this moment, to be empty.  It does not beat.  How can it?  I need your redness to fill it, so it can beat again.  Truth is nothing, the pulse my finger can detect at my throat meaningless, in the face of that emptiness, that need.  And oh how I need it!  I can nearly taste it, old-penny flavor on my tongue, warmth filling my mouth, filling that empty spot within.
	
	I scratch at my own wrist, drawing forth a feeble thread of red, but it leaves me as empty as before.  For it is not just the blood.  Not just the warm-metal-salt taste of it.  I need too that moment just before your redness becomes mine.  That moment when you lay your hand on my head, and nod, and say "Yes, boy.  You may take what you need."  
	
	I would take it with my own teeth if I could, but the touch of steel on your skin suffices.  I could not bear to hurt you.  Your pain is not what I crave, only your blood.  I can picture it, welling up, beading on your skin.  The first taste is always so sweet.  The first touch of your heart to mine.  "The blood is the life," he said.  And it is.  Your life, shared with me.  A precious gift that I take with gratitude, my head bent as I drink.  Each mouthful is a tiny part of you, given to me.
	
	That other gift is easy, a white heat that demands fulfillment, a monkey coupling driven by urges that haven't changed in a billion years.  This gift is harder.  There is no monkey urge demanding you give it.  You grant me that which I need because you care.
	
	Joy fills me as much as passion, your redness letting my heart beat once more.