Like angels—winged, shimmering, misunderstood— they flit beyond our understanding being neither evil, nor good. They are as they are ... and we are their lovers, their prey; they seek us out when the moon is full; they dream of us by day. Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring— trap ours with their strange appeal till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ... to see, to touch, to feel.
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And in their arms, enchanted, we feel their lips, grown old, till with their gorging kisses we warm them, growing cold.