My Inner Workings

He

'And he thinks about how she reminds him of snow
Ever so beautiful, yet ever so cold'

He lays there, quiet.
He thinks, of the shivers her icy fingers will send through his body at first touch.
He dreams of the chills he will feel as she traces her fingers down his spine.

Cold as a corpse her lips meet the nape of his neck,
Yet to him, it feels as warm as lightening and bonfires.
Cold as the oceans themselves, her fingers trace their way down his cheeks,
Scratching their way down with them,
Scraping away his layers,
Casting away his imperfections.

Her fingers trace their way down the muscles on his left shoulder.
Then the muscles in his arm.
And finally they reach his trembling palm.
Their fingers intertwine, sending sharp shivers up those very muscles as promised.
His skin feeling like it's stuck at the top of Mount Everest.
But his blood feeling like it has been spilled into a lava lake.

And her eyes.
Eyes with fires warm enough to melt the Artemisian bronze itself.
Yet if looked closely, also cold enough to turn it back to stone once again.
Eyes filled with nothing and everything at the same time.
Eyes that draw him in, like the calls of a siren, baiting his naive heart to the dark ocean floor.
To his doom.

Yet as the longing of her void calls him, making him dream of the fullness he could bring to it,
He marches happily into her nothingness.
All the while foolishly believing that she is there awaiting him with open arms.