Here you are,
with cold feet and
fingertips pressed tight
against cracked skin—
an archaic mantle for a budding soul

Beautiful is not what I call it,
the frost in your eyes—
black tongues underneath
layers of blue flames

It is vicious and delicate,
electric and fickle—
the flavor of rain
on the moisture of your lips
and the trace of summer
along the curve of your neck

Beautiful is not what I call it,
for there is no word to capture
the ease in the pain
and the ecstasy in the anger
when the sun and moon rise
in the same sky