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She is the fairest lady in the world, and her name is Lilith, which means night demon; menacing enough, cruel enough, massive enough to fit her in all her glory. She is the apple of my eye.

My rival - her last lover, before I came - used phrases like 'flower soft' and 'red as roses' in his countless adoring sonnets, which goes some ways towards explaining why he is dead now. She had him killed in the midst of a particularly insipid verse; no sudden death, though, no coldly kind thrown knife. Yet another of her loyal slaves poisoned his wine: essence of oleander, I think.

He was a great poet, before she kissed him, but her scent befuddled him and her predatory nakedness ate him alive until he was reduced to paltry lines filled up with inadequacy. I am only what I am because the sight and smell and sound of her takes me in a different way than most. I would devour her if I could, I think, and do so as much as I dare every passing day. I used to be a poor writer at best, but living as I do on her flame I am pinned like a butterfly to the willing page, granted at last the ability to cut out my soul in a pulsing, bloody mess and spill it over thirsty emptiness in a torrent of ink. There was a time when I too might have called her flower soft. I know better now. Oh, yes. Shall I describe her for you, the woman who is everything? I shall.

Lilith is pale and plump and powdered, an overabundance of flesh, curve over curve over curve. Her skin is milky, a thin translucent gossamer wrapping, inexpertly applied to shapely fat over diminished muscle. I imagine her underneath that veil, yellow slime, more blood, brown meat, fluids in her and about her, a delicacy to the tongue in her heart and brain and womb, half for me, half for my madness, we two-as-one who will, if all goes well, be the entity to eat her when the time comes as it must. I'll take her grey blue eyes, round white bloodshot perfection, sweet jelly in my mouth. The madness shall drink from her torn out jugular and chew the good flavors from her scalp, shall garb itself in her long hair, the color of autumn leaves and silky to the touch. And in these and a thousand other little ways, Lilith shall be ours.

But for now I am content to drink of her loveliness from a little distance, her consort and her voice. I am content to admire her moon face, moon bum, moon breasts, moon smile. I am content to know the secrets of her body in other ways, slick sheath and strong thighs, teeth tearing away at my shoulders, the secret hollows of her back and neck. I am even content that every day she looks harder at me, her curling, wetted lashes black and deceptive, her gaze half-lidded, her lips pursed. She will try to break me as her bread before I and the muse can do the same to her. She may even succeed, for there is a difference between blinding, human perfection with a hundred thousand blades and the pen that paints a sketchy outline for it, charcoal on stone, temporary and immortal. The beautiful never lack for ways to kill. But I am confident. We outnumber her, the madness and I.

She is the fairest lady in the land, and her name is Lilith, which means night demon; menacing enough, cruel enough, massive enough to fit her in all her glory. She is the apple of my eye.

But my name is Adam; I am mad, I am man, and I know how to deal with apples.

I like the style of this although my image of Lillith is different. Maybe at some point I'll introduce y'all to my mental image of Lillith... until then though this is awesome ^^

I love how Adam is mad...

Wow.
I'm... floored. Absolutely floored.
This is amazing!
I especially loved the repetition of the first few lines; just tied everything together in a nice little package.