“Cold as ice, but in the right hands, she melts”

The font of this text has been waving its script towards my avoidance of love.

I showed a clean pair of heels in the runway of a sensitive commitment. I’ve been plotting to delete my existence in the intimacy of yearning for a companion. But before I could even blend my footprint in the aisle, someone interrupted to undo my scheme—not even intimidated by how I latch every opening to never let any beat of heart in.

The language class I enrolled in tempted me to include words of affirmation. I have been mute and deaf for the dosage of words to work in my sickness. The panic wasn’t tolerable; I’m getting ick of the idea.

But right there, I faced my fear—I faced love and saw how his lenses brought madness to my heart in prison.

The adjustment of his height to stand fairly under my nose urged me to be in contact with his standards too. I was okay wearing my gothic veil until he showed no fear and that my camp of escape was finally found. The ice still draws breaths; however, it’s warmer now.

“I prayed for a good man for you.” No, you prayed yourself for me.

This arresting shot of connection really does not need a retake to prove its legality.