Image from http://anfalcollection.blogspot.com/
Ice is life for you.
Cool to touch. Frost. Icicles, snow.
The only sign of warmth?
The blush of your cheeks, nose.
Seeing the ice melt before you–
Like nature’s tears–
You long for endless December.
Is it because of your winter birth?
Your nigh year-end beginning?
You always did prefer the chill.
And the cold, always beckoning back.
A siren singing your very own song.
Surely, you know better than to comply?
The bright tint of your skin is preferred
To the frostbite lying in wait.