Black laced around her thigh
A certain poise to her voice that trickles down your spine
The everlasting long for her pale green eyes
her lingering pink lips infected by lies
She plays Russian Roulette with the roll of her tongue
Lovers feel her for what she is, the first snowfall of the year
Cold, but utter beauty
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Winter is long, and she grows frigid
teases the heat with distant kisses
Flowers never bloom,
Trees grow plain
Lace is just fabric
Her voice now horrid
Pale green eyes turned a soulless blue
You can never forget her first lie
to think you were ever loved by her
is to be a fool who doesn’t wear a jacket in the middle of December.