I met  him at one of my favorite haunts

Full of grinding music, dark corners,

The air heavy with clove cigarettes.

He was tall, dark, beautiful

A mop of curly black hair and a Bela Lugosi t-shirt.

But his eyes-his eyes.

I was drawn like a moth to a flame,

Hypnotic to his gaze.

We mirrored our movements in dance,

All I could see was him.

Suddenly, the moment was broken.

My friend, observing all of this, grabbed my arm

And literally pulled me away.

I looked for him on several occasions afterwards,

But nothing.

I wondered: what if I had stayed?

Would I be some two-dimensional, faded photo on the wall

Of some discount store?

Would I be some pile of bones

In some nondescript stretch of forest?

Or maybe I would become  what I thought he was:

Enigmatic,  charming, undead?