He swam to the doorway in the same manner that she flew to the window. When he braced himself against the jamb, half-expecting to gaze upon a disheveled painting of sheets and skin, he saw nothing but the aftermath. The almost intangible, the comparably forgettable.
When his slow eyes finally tracked her near the wall, she was already gone. A sigh and a flutter and all that they had been was now membranous in the wind.
He shook his head and bowed his skull and swore to never again sink this low.
The next evening, he proved himself a liar. An invitation caressed his lips when her dark eyes penetrated his soul from the stoop. She accepted in stride, pale limbs carrying her back into his desperate void, a den of lust and need and unshackled love. Before dawn's arrival, she showed him the true meaning of all three; sans love.
For she had sunken, and he was now a captive in her veins, rivulets of immeasurable tyranny.
To say that she had stabbed him in the back would be both an understatement, and a misnomer of anatomy. In reality, it was an organ inside his chest that forfeit his will. Of the wound that has survived, shall henceforth become his tomb.