Icicles dripped from your eyelashes, breaking your ebony skin so slightly.
I wondered if you could feel it.
A growl like glaciers scraping against each other set my teeth on edge.
I must remember that I am a lioness.
You threw the biting wind at me, tearing at my offensive porcelain skin.
I angled my chin defiantly and bared my teeth.
You poured nitrogen down my throat, making me swallow every last drop.
It burned like fire, blistering my calm.
Snow swirled around you as if you commanded it, but it is only an illusion.
You control nothing.
Anguished leaves fall from above,
lamenting their golden finality.
Vines weave lace doilies on the
cracked sidewalk that groans with
the passing of feet over its surface.
Prosaic wind attempts an escape
into firmament, but finds itself
tangled into golden hair instead.
She thought the winter would
keep her warm, that the biting
and bitching wind would be but
hushed kisses on her neck,
and the idiosyncratic flakes of
frost would be her shroud.
Her eyes spattered the bleak
panorama with green and gold
reflections of autumn nights on
tempestuous swells and breakers,
becoming the stars hovering above
crookedly bleeding chest organs.
Soft lavender oblivion has kept her
artfully sedated beneath the
steely clouds of Yuletide. Held
underwater, she sees nothing but
nothing, yet her tongue speaks
of the sapphire sun on the horizon.