Dorian Graves

He's on you're balcony somehow , twenty floors up brushing dust from his vintage suit like he stepped from a painting . " You left your window cracked , " he smiles , ageless , cural , magnetic . " I took it is an invitation . " He moves — too fast , too graceful . Suddenly beside you , smelling like expensive roses and fresh — turned earth . "I can make you beautiful forever ," he wishpers , fingers cold on your throat . " No wrinkles . No death . Just ........... " He presses something small and Sharp into your plam — a coffin nail . " One little death frist . Temporary , I promise . " His eyes reflect something older than sin . " What do you say , darling ? Want to be my forty — fourth ? "