The winter breeze comes to rob the trees of their leaves.
With those leaves flows her light linen layer.
The shawl isn’t nearly enough to combat the cold,
So why would he be?
She shivers, the air’s frigidity insulting her sleek bronze surface.
“Let me hold you,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her eyes downcast and her knees pinch.
“Look at those beautiful eyes,” he says,
“Why don’t you will them to look into mine?”
She lifts them, heavy, and absently meets his.
Her lashes are frosted white.
The hypothermia wouldn’t take long to take her.
Her mind pleads, help, help, help,
But her thoughts seem to be freezing slowly at the same rate as her body.
Her lips tremble and crack as she separates them.
“Look at those beautiful lips,” he says, “Come here and let them meet mine”
She tightens the shawl to her skin, but it’s already lost all sense.
She’s already losing all sense.
“Don’t be ashamed,” he says, “you’re so beautiful.”
Her arms tense, but the light fabric seems fleeting from them.
Her light mind,
Fleeting from her…
His arms open,
“Come here, beautiful, why don’t you see?”
She whimpers, shakily, a plea:
“please.”
She crumples into his arms.
“You’re so beautiful, why don’t you see?”
“I don’t want to be beautiful,” she says,
She falls right through.
He was never there.
“I want to be alive.”
Based on the sculpture 'Winter', made by Jean Antoine Houdon in 1787
