Last kill

Money was the good,

job was the obvious,

not the wor,d

to kill,

herself,

with only stone one, stone attached,

no pain.

Terrace was the meet,

strong drink condition mine.

Her smile, microscopic, the hidden lips cave only,

fallen leaves rustling helpless me walk them over.

Eyes of my hugging hand

on-seeing turned road,

whisper:

"Hug and push".

I did.

And run;

still running,

remembering her caress,

on my limb,

before-pushing,

wit caressed

hand

of

death.

First caress of mine.

Last kill of mine.