"Without warmth in this season,
How do you think your fine mouth could exist?"
from Geisha Considered as Making
by Malinda Markham
I think of ice and the cold touch of your lips
pursed in an image, an ice sculpture
dripping only in the increasing light
you melting with my each realization.
A form in lack of warmth
becoming less with each steamy breath
as I flow in icy floes
cracked and jagged edges
tearing at each other
in a jolting tumble -- the inevitable splash.
Blue lipped, frosted face
you sparkle in the wind
still whispering to me
as I slowly, slowly sink
beneath the ice, beneath your kiss.