Buffy follows her feet to his crypt door
Warm-blooded, gloved palm barely touches
What is this tension that holds her back?
White-haired demon pours his cup of blood
Self-pity in his throat but he doesn't care,
Of course not
Just the normal state of things, isn't it?
Is it her scent that draws him or his love of pain?
Hand to hand, heart to heart,
With one that'll never beat again—
Not supposed to, not supposed to, it's wrong.
He's not a "moving on", Buffy tells herself
He's a "moving back" in a bad way, another demon
A betrayal to an angel-faced boy who no longer exists,
Gone with a young girl so connected to life.
She's lost them, the Buffy&Angel of lore—
Spike's saturated her, the heat and lilt of his voice
Cool touch, those deep-inside-you stares,
Love or lust, there it is
But the closer she draws near
The more she needs to run
"Don't think about the evil blood-sucking fiend"
She demands into the night.
He loves pain, and so will open the door
Will hope again, though
His heart should have learned by now—
Born a crawling parasite,
Clinging to apron strings—
Spike runs out after Buffy,
Hoping to catch up with her once more.