She's the shooter.
He's the cleaner.
She gets by murder with the use of her pistol, beautifully shined, just like her burgundy-painted lips. She smokes in front of a brick building, abandoned. She is armed with this chemical stare and looks ever-lovely in her coal black dress, with its endings swiveling through the cold and dusty wind, simultaneously brushing against her soft and tinted cheeks. She intervenes with someone else's epilogue, fast-forwards their sins by alternating scenes, and she succeeds. She shoots the brain.
He waits for her illustrious signal, that kiss of penetrating lust and reverberating thirst. He clings his hand onto his suspenders, the other one flicking the same cigarette as hers. He isn't drunk but just a single glimpse of her splendid eyes, flickering like that of a sinful mermaid, trances him in and out, and in, and out. His punk-rotten boots are ready to haul and maul someone else's grave, shape-shifts their scenes by altering sins, and he delivers. He begrimes the blood.
She's the shooter;
she revives him with lyre.
He's the cleaner;
he dirties her with desire.
