by Blake Bennett
The poem is Brassy!
Drawn from the inkwell of a mysterious denizen of LiveJournal
who travels by the name of Pyanfar Chanur.
He declined to reveal his true name.
Nine degrees Farenheit
Walking down the frozen sidewalk,
it felt as if it would shatter beneath my feet.
I never would have pegged her for a witch,
but her beauty was truly unnatural.
And she smiled at me in such a way...
clearly this was a Glamour that stopped me,
held me rapt.
So I had to ask.
"Is it really that cold?"
"See for yourself," she said,
and despite the chill,
I felt heat rise in my face as she gracefully took hold of my trembling hand.
Her movements were hypnotic,
sensual as she guided my numbing fingertips deftly through folds of silk shirt.
A feeling of cold metal,
but even colder flesh.
Pulling my hand back out into the frozen air with a shudder,
I could only breathe,
"It is...isn't it.?"
Her only answer
a knowing and remorseful smile.
The bittersweet freeze of a goosebump grope still lingers as I clutch this coffee that I don't seem to be drinking
to its sides.