Quentin Coldwater

Quentin wakes in his ivory tower
and huffs a labored sigh.
The steam that rises from his lips
births rainbows.
The sun settles viscous: syrup
on his wooden limbs,
but he is always cold, and immune to the joys
of sweetness−
so he surrenders.

Quentin holds a golden candlestick
and lets the wax drip over his fingers.
He is always cold,
but the burn feels nice on his
blackened skin.
He waits,
wary and thin,
for the snow to settle in.