Shadows are not meant to be pale.
He defies.
Color is absent,
drained away and leaving nothing.
Every inch is ghost and parchment –
every pore, every hair, every thing.
Pale.
He grasps only one color.
His eyes.
Purple.
Deep like nightshade,
twin amethysts sparkling
from sunken hollows
in his skull,
violet and violent.
He is watching her,
a part of the shadow,
longing for her color.
He is dreaming of the day
when he will look into her eyes,
open up her veins,
and bathe in her blood,
staining him forever.
Maybe that will fix him.