By Annette Gagliardi
The fozen air
quickly turns my fingers to icicles.
While the pair over there
entwine in romantic embrace.
My blood desserts the stone-cold nubs.
It retreats to safer regions.
The pair engage in salacious intercourse,
reminiscent of two heathens.
The flesh of my hands begins to parch
and needles of pain race along.
Then the pair come hither
to join mine, as if bidden in a song.
Those Oh-so-hot!, touch tenderly
and save mine from demise;
with healing moist & temperature
they scorch and misticize.
The frozen air
no longer has the power
of frigid fare.
My hands get warmer by the hour.
That pair over there
with new & lithesome dance,
charms my pair
and shares new circumstance.
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