Windchill

A chill has crept into my skin -
a cold that wears my armor thin.
Perhaps it has an outer source
of subtlety; perhaps its force
is in the wind that's whipping me,
that numbs my skin so wonderfully -
that, had I will to rub them heat,
would still my hands and fingers freeze.

My hair's on end - you are, it seems,
so icy that you chill my dreams;
and nothing warmer dare I seek,
for fire lives in icy cheeks.
As autumn moves the trees this year,
so red is drawn on wind-chilled ears -
and so my hands are made of cold,
so perfectly; so uncontrolled -

In love with you? I think I am;
my heart is in your icy hands.


~

Age when written: 16