Pieces of our souls

She,
having walked a long path,
asks me at my door,
"Give me a sliver of your soul.
Nothing less will sate me.
Worry not, for I have my soul for your savor."

She asks me
on a blood moon
when my soul cries for
silver's touch
and my mind seeks relief from
how pieces of me were torn to bits
last time I tried this.

Moon in one hand,
soul in another,
my eyes afire,
my body parched,
I turn to her.

I see her lips are honey,
        her eyes are dark,
        her teeth sharp,
        her touch soothing,
        her cleaver keen,
        her nails clawing.

I open my mouth.
I turn to her
and I say,
"Have we been here before?"