“Stay.” She says.
She pulls me closer to her.
Her jacket is grey, a
Maybe, or some kind of synthetic fabric.
Her hot breath mixes with the cruel frost,
Sending her soul out through her lips,
To create a steam of pure existence and
Death. “I need you.”
I look at her,
This frail thing,
This nymph, who now believes
That she is ready to be a woman.
I cannot. I am not ready.
The cold penetrates my skin, seeps
Into my very soul,
Making all that I see
I look into her eyes, this
Wondrous thing of love and
Beauty. And I say “No.”
“I do not know how to love you.”