Pale blue and delicate, they smelled both sweet and faintly
of death.
"Thank you," she said, "they're beautiful."
Yet, perhaps just because they were -
or because of that unsettling scent -
although she smiled as she took them,
her eyes expressed a certain
fear.
As if she'd been reminded
she had always found him chilly,
and he liked to say that beauty, and art,
required sacrifice.
Still, monster or no,
she had loved him for many years,
and she was grateful and touched by the gift.
So she tried to mask her disquiet,
and didn't insist
when she asked where he had found them -
and he replied, "Oh, you know,"
and gave a vague, uncomfortable wave...

Shortly after, he left,
looking sad, but relieved she hadn't pressed him;
that he hadnt had to tell her
he had picked those flowers from her grave.

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