She stares at the ethereal, elegant snowflakes
as they languidly flit through the frigid air,
catching the singular spines of the pine trees reigning over the park.
Perching uncomfortably on the edge of the cedar bench,
cloaked in dim lamplight,
her features are sharply accentuated by the shadows.
The thin layer of frozen rain cracks beneath her,
exposing susceptible, splintered wood.

The air trembles with tangible anxiety
and his lips move rapidly as he voices his concern,
coming together and splitting apart in erotic sequences
interrupted periodically by a nervous, moist lick.
Clear cobalt eyes are earnest and bright, begging to be let in.
The low rumbling vibrations dance inside her ears,                                                   
and she does not hear the individual words but the cadence of his voice,
lilting and silvery among the soft night.

Her face is stone, beautiful and passive,
even after he desperately divulges his feelings.
Grasping her frigid, bare hand in his thermal gloved one,
he attempts to connect through physical touch.
She refuses to dilate.

A single frozen flake catches in her inky, dark lashes
as they graze her chiseled cheekbone.
With each blunt question she withdraws,
retreating back in layered folds of fibrous defensiveness.

Frustrated, he shoves away from the crackling, icy bench.
Kneeling down on the frosted brick pathway in front of her,
he pleads with  her to trust him.
She senses passion from his genuine tone and quaking lips,
but all she can do is silently turn her cheek
and hide her pained expression behind lustrous curls.

Highly pigmented shame and potent suspicion
block his light from crossing to her vulnerable heart.
Watching his silhouette recede into the shadows
of the night in a flurry of coattails and cinnamon cologne,
she yearns to protest, to stop him,
but each color of her personality balks at his directness,
preferring to suffer alone