Her morning voice was like the whispers heard on a summer’s night, clear as rinsed crystal. Champagne bubbled to the rim of her laughter and honey dripped its scent from the waking hive. Her touch was silk.
But winter was dark and muddied as ditch-water. The trees beckoned with witch-like arms, threatening doom. In dreams he rushed to the midnight pool where a crystal moon cast stars that passed like comets of sparkling wine. Then he tasted again her honeyed lips, and the breeze spun hair to milk and whispers to glass.
She was his vampire, lover of his dreams.