Diaphanous and heavy,
you circle around me like a
fractured merry-go-round -
dizzying, foreboding of what’s
to come. I love the darkness
and the heady greys that come
with your enveloping mouth.
I love the seasonal rain that turns
us all to stone.

The stoicism of this dark afternoon,
under clouds, under storm clouds
not crackling with electricity but rather
the calm in the storm, the eye of the
snow, that glass maiden with her sharp
touch. I always preferred
a woman with a quick tongue,
a bite that breaks the skin and reveals
the blood. The blood that bleeds
hot and melts the ice, until it molds
again in the shape of your hands
grasping the last of the winter,
the grip impenetrable, unbreakable.

Winter is a harsh bitch
and for that I am drawn into
her frigid embrace. Only she
can I fear and desire, a crazed
and rabid love that freezes as
it poisons.

When the summer pulls the sweat
from my skin it is her touch I crave.
The soft warmth of spring is
but a dull poet’s dream; what I want
is the keen bleak reminder of this
enthralling affair, that pushes me to
the lengths of love and further into
that other lover, the secret solace
of flame.