The Frost in Melancholy

‘I love snow,’ she says,
huddled against the banks
of the frozen river, hands
and arms and legs exposed,
gelid blue creeping over
her pale skin. The tears
from yesterday stain those
icy cheeks as icicles dust
her brow, frost those
long eyelashes. Lips once
cheery pink now tremble
under a chilling hue as
she shivers. She shivers
from the cold memories,
from the hollow consuming
her fragile soul.

‘Come back,’ you say- you plead-
standing in the fallen snow,
thoughts of cider and a fire
beckoning you back home. A wool cloak
wraps tight around your shoulders,
mittens try to warm your hands,
but you shiver.

‘I love snow,’ she whispers quiet,
eyes cast down to veil
the frigid pain within, and you
just stand there, frozen
in the fallen snow,
as she silently
weeps.