It is the snowflake
Melting on skin,
Once grasped,
Fish caught by hand,
It cuts you deep,
Naturally dissolving
From one thing
To one million,
Frightened by touch,
Swarming away
To deeper, hidden currents,
Or sublimating
Into finer airs,
Floating away
Regardless the wind,
Fine nude
Reclining on a couch
But a frozen replica
Of something finer
Only hinted,
In the blush of her face
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