Whether it was his words
or the cold flake of wind, sent
to make a chill his spine descend.
His mind got divided in two different worlds.

As bumps arose upon his skin
he took the time to let the view in.
He looked too closely, too refined
in a way that every difference properly aligned.

Two friends in pink and red rehearsed
what they had read before he even had discovered
how this image of perfection frantically hovered
so far from his yawn and written cursed.

The cold did not emerge at once. The breath he throws
is visible and harmful though the proces slows.