Who knew that violet could freeze the soul? Who knew that red could be a
cold color? Who knew a human body could solidify the very blood in my
veins?
He knew. He knew very well, yet he did nothing to stop it.
Every day, those purple ice cubes would look into my soul and freeze it solid. I could do nothing to stop him. Looking away, I still knew he was watching me, throwing frozen darts into the deep corners of my being. Closing my eyes only delayed the inevitable onslaught. If I matched his gaze? His violet eyes bore such holes in me, I could feel myself spilling away, disappearing into nothing.
My fingers yearn to rake through those long locks, to feel each strand of red silk tangle around my hand. My hands ache to soothe his knotted, frozen muscles, to bring much-needed warmth to his beautifully lean body. My arms long to hold him close, to comfort his broken and crying soul. My lips scream to caress and tease his skin, to take him in deep and bring him to sweet release.
But he is a living palace of ice, cold to the world he refuses to acknowledge.
Try though I might, I cannot carve past that frozen barricade. Behind those eyes I can see a flaming, hellish passion, waiting to be kindled, released. If only I could fire his passion; if only he would let me. His chiseled form responds to nothing, subtle or obvious. Lowered eyes, lingering fingers, teasing breath. It's like trying to seduce a rock. I feel as though I am dashed against the shore, fighting for my love, and losing.
He knew. He knew very well, yet he did nothing to stop it.
Every day, those purple ice cubes would look into my soul and freeze it solid. I could do nothing to stop him. Looking away, I still knew he was watching me, throwing frozen darts into the deep corners of my being. Closing my eyes only delayed the inevitable onslaught. If I matched his gaze? His violet eyes bore such holes in me, I could feel myself spilling away, disappearing into nothing.
My fingers yearn to rake through those long locks, to feel each strand of red silk tangle around my hand. My hands ache to soothe his knotted, frozen muscles, to bring much-needed warmth to his beautifully lean body. My arms long to hold him close, to comfort his broken and crying soul. My lips scream to caress and tease his skin, to take him in deep and bring him to sweet release.
But he is a living palace of ice, cold to the world he refuses to acknowledge.
Try though I might, I cannot carve past that frozen barricade. Behind those eyes I can see a flaming, hellish passion, waiting to be kindled, released. If only I could fire his passion; if only he would let me. His chiseled form responds to nothing, subtle or obvious. Lowered eyes, lingering fingers, teasing breath. It's like trying to seduce a rock. I feel as though I am dashed against the shore, fighting for my love, and losing.