Dedication: My second birthday fic for buttercupbella. Since the first fic I wrote had restrictions, I wanted to write another for her, because she is such an amazing author and friend. I tried poetry, but I doubt it can compare to hers. [And also, this is rated M because of the implications. So if you're going to berate be for not including smut, let's just say that while my fic remains within the rules and guidelines, the real smut fics aren't.] And the purpose of this poem? Well, I like my ambiguous endings and meanings. ;)

Layer of Frost

by Autumn Win-Dow

You stand on a layer of ice

Brittle, slippery, delicate

It will shatter from the slightest move of

Wrong, it will melt from the slightest

Apricity—it is a winter, where your breath brings only

Vapour, but not words—

Air, but not survival in this dark, dark world of

The evil practices—you cannot predict the commitment of

Murder, the practice of deception, the art of

Seduction.

You stand on a tightrope

Bound and tugged for a purpose which is only

Yours—you are the one who stands, with toes clenched

And heart ready for it all

But really, are you ready?

Are you ready when the eyes of a cat peer at you—

Judge you, analyse you, for a peculiar weakness

But you know that the slightest movement of the

Wind—the cursed wind—would lead to your eventual

Downfall.

The ice shall melt from the slightest heat

And shall shatter from the slightest fall

And it is because of the cat—she presses her warm lips against

The sheet of frost—your sheet of frost

Daring you to intercede

With those eyes of devilish aurum

You can feel her fingers trace your collarbone

A gentle touch

Yet it void of all innocent intention—as it is merely

Lust.

It is a continuous tennis match where the ball

Moves back and forth between she and you

Where the second bounce would result in a final result

15-Love

You do not intend to fall in love

But as her fingers trace lines of fire across your cheekbone and

You memorise the curves of her waist—and under

It is not love

But a deathly exchange of

Passion.

You realise that life and death are merely

Objects in your routine

You juggle

And juggle

Until one falls from the mid-air cycle

Like a trapeze artist in the slightest wind

And the woman whose cold hand pushes you

Has only one goal—

Your life, gripped between her sharp nails

Strangled.

But what could you do?

Your fingers had traced every curve—

Every curve.

You had pleasured her, and she you into a moment of

Euphoria

Only one thing differentiated you from

Her—it was not the underlying passion nor

The intent—you were lovers, but

While you knew what was in her mind

She knew what to do.

"If I gave you my life, you would drop it. Wouldn't you?"

You remain silent.