I write poetry for the same reason that I read books; in search for words that carry withing them the power to express the emotion of my unbeating heart. She was the only one who ever understood that urge; the first person who believed me when I said, that I don't write because I want to, but because I have to. She would sit with my notebook open in her lap, silently reading from start to finish. And once she reached the last period, she would look up, smile, and say: "You're amazing, Jasper."

I would completely crumble beneath her gaze; those wild brown eyes. I would sink into a pit of shame and desire, and I would wallow in it, as I fantasized about the warmth of her skin, and the redness of the blood that flowed within her veins.

She never noticed; she was too innocent a creature to even think it, and too wrapped up in her own world notice the change in me. She would get up to embrace me, and tell me thanks for letting her read. As if it were some sort of blessing bestowed upon her.

So innocent. Or maybe naïve is a better word.

Her arms around me, I would have to close my eyes, and focus intensely on remaining calm. Drawing in her scent, I struggled to stay alert, to keep my mind from wandering; reminding myself that I have the power to control my urges. Feeling her arms around my neck. Sensing her smell; so intoxicating. I wanted her, but could not have her. I told myself I wouldn't hurt her.

But, somewhere inside, there was a part of me that wanted to do nothing else.

So I decided to leave. But before I did, I had to see her again, one last time.

I came to her in the middle of the night, through the window in her bedroom. Her weary eyes watching me, I thought to myself that I could just do it right there; drink from her – and then vanish. There was no-one close enough or strong enough to stop me.

But when I saw the fear and confusion in her eyes, at my sudden appearance, I felt nauseous. What monster was I becoming? After all the years of abstinence, was I really willing to throw it all away for this girl? The thought sickened me. But I couldn't blame her; only myself.

My behavior that night bemused her, and I knew I had to leave before it would be too late. I wanted to hold her one last time, but feared what it might lead to. Being so close to her. Never have I been so tempted to bite down on someone, and never so certain that doing so would be the worst mistake of my life.

So I pulled her close in a quick embrace, and then left, feeling her gaze burn at my back even when I was long out of her sight.

And here I stand today: alone, desolate. It would perhaps bare some poetical and absurdly beautiful meaning to be able to say, that I have constant nightmares about her – but it would be a lie. I don't sleep. I don't dream. But somehow, she still haunts me. I see pools of her blood in my mind sometimes, and it is pure torture.

Still, I endure. I must. I read my novels, I write my poetry, but there is no longer anyone there for me, who cares to take her time reading it. So the meaning of it all has started to escape me. Lately, all I've managed is random words; verbalization of the imagery in my mind, too gruesome to articulate in full sentences.

There are days, I must admit, when I regret my decision to spare her life. But most of the time, I simply miss having someone to talk to about poetry.