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Golden Cold Front

Tripping over shallow pores,
my eyes find no purchase
in their attempt to digest
every aspect of your face

Freckles of flame, resting
atop lakes of gold
like sun borne lily pads.

With a final leap, the eyes breach
your cheekbone horizon
only to freeze
at the glacial tides
pouring forth, forward
"you may leave now."

Chipping away
at the frost in my joints,
I do as told
too cold to wonder
how such separate states
live just a nose bridge away.

Comprehension escapes
all but Aphrodite herself.