Frost.

Winter chills, the hill
looming over St Petersburg,
minus forty degrees
the heat is stifling.

The glow of Auburn
fire igniting
hard packed snow,
a torch to guide me home

eyes flash green and gold
treasure unrequited.
The bite of a waspish tongue
kisses lemon and honey

Your skin pale,
cheeks brushed
with the tinge of red roses
gifted by frosty fingers

feeling your smile
into sad animation.
A bead freezes
On the slope of a sallow cheek

And I brace for loss
the why of it
the how of it.
Hidden in the permafrost

The sound of ice
shattering underfoot,
my screams mute.
Love lost in careless words

the implosion ripping flesh and bone
too late it opens my frozen core.

-Dave Kavanagh

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