The first word is twilight, the time between lights. The second word is demon. Over him hangs the sword of Damocles, foretelling the tragedy that is about to take place. The last word makes us think of a flower that will lose all her petals. Or, in a different light, one whose love will lie bleeding in her arms.
Some demons rip hearts. Others bite necks. Our demon’s signature is plucking petals. But he doesn’t want to do it. He refuses. Because he is in love with a flower. Flowers have signatures too. Some are self-absorbed. Others are merciful. Our demon’s flower makes those she loves bleed out in her arms. And now the time has come. Twilight is here. And there is a question in the air. Once the light fades, and the lovers part ways, whose name will remain written in the dark?
I have seen Time plucking petals and I don’t want to do the same to you, my love. I will say goodbye. I will say how much I love you. And I can only hope that a different fate befalls my words.
I don’t need the petals of this flower to give me an answer before twilight. Once night falls, I will be dead in your arms and I will know that you love me.
Water may well be life, but it is insipid. A wasted life that hasn’t been truly lived. Blood is different. It’s a life lived with passion, with dreams, with purpose. I am a flower. And I want to be watered with blood.
Once you are gone, I won’t ever open my eyes at dawn again. Because yours is the only blood I want to remember, not the sun’s.
I cannot be here once night falls. It cannot be me. Knowing, even in the dark, that your petals would be scattered all over the ground, would be unbearable. I would rather die. But I need you to know that I love you. And it hurts. This uncertainty hurts. Because you won’t be able to read my letter in the dark. And I worry that the dark will remind you of something else.
I am going to show you how much I love you, that I love you and no other flower but you. At twilight, you will be surrounded by petals and I will die in your arms.
It may be my story, my life, but I refuse to sacrifice part of myself to have a pencil with which to write it down. You love me. You will give me the blood with which to write our love story.
I don’t like dawns, because I am alone again and I have to look for someone new to love.
I have changed my mind, my love. I cannot entrust this letter to Time. If your petals are bound to end on the ground anyway, I would rather be the one that plucks them.
Hurry up, my love. This twilight feels like an eternity. Hurry up and bleed me, because I won’t be able to resist my nature much longer. And the next flower could be you.
Flowers are sweet. Blood tastes like metal. I worry that when you die and I end covered in your blood, everything will taste like candy wrappers, like discarded things. Just like I discarded you.
What new love will this dawn bring me? I’m so excited. There are so many possibilities.