The Man of Snow

I dreamt I was free,
free to kiss the man of snow.
I could shape him with my lips,
and melt him against my hips.

Dreaming my dream of snow,
it could feel so pure and real
that every night
my love would tenderly grow.

But when I reached for his hand
he stared at me, eyes empty and cold,
from the summit of his cheekbones
as he replied three times NO.

Now my hands are frozen,
my head is drowned in the fog.
My heart keeps beating in painful numbness
since I touched the man of snow.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated SouthPawPoet’s story.