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Ironically, he was born in the summer.

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Ironically, he was born in the summer.

His lips were made of icicles.
They weren’t carved
And they didn’t look like
Panda Bears
Or other cuddly entities.
Just cold.
And bear.
(Pun intended).

His hair was like snow.
My footprints left a path.
What was underneath
Remains unknown.
I like to think it was waves of auburn.
Or,
Goldie Locks.

His hands were thin layers of ice.
I tried to crack them.
I skated figure eights
Around and around and around.
The hands never cracked.

His smile was frost.
It wasn’t full
Nor thin.
It was ephemeral
Like a cool, transitory wind.
It blew into my heart,
And out again.

Ironically, he was born in the summer.




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