To Snow

The entire industry had frozen under
twenty feet of spite and ice.

I always told you that you were
too much for me -- your hands engulfed mine,
my tiny frame tilted on it's tip-toe axis just
to brush my lips on your sloping shoulders,
to silence taut tongues that had spoken themselves
into passive fusion, where aggressive fists
stood standstill for a century, they now
twist and grind the machinery of your
pristine mind, they're formulated,
they're open for a palmer's kiss.

You stood on a mountain top,
wind tossing your greasy hair to reveal
china blue eyes, opaline moons that saw
mystery naked and I, bedspread,
every ounced imperfects wisped away
by the chill in the wind, who stole
all but your voice, so soothing and low.
It fleshed my mortality to Calypso,
it stole winter's chill from my chapped hands,
and, shaking, we met at our peak.

"You look like death.
There's none but white to your skin,
none but blood to your lips."

"I only look so lifeless
for I have yet to be born."

I am free beneath a sky without stars,
safe in the obsidian blankets of your soul -
With your bare skin you taught me that
secrets uncovered only breed more wonder,
and that it's not bets and gains,
but life.

Twenty feet of ice, this winter's prism
is struck in the lightning ray, and
clear and colors have finally aligned.