Cold is the night when she holds your tender hands, kissing them with frosted tips.
Cold is her heart, a marmalade of crystal ice.
She sheds her cape of snow onto your shoulders,
and it melted from your vice.
Cold is the breath which vapors from your face.
It benevolently led you home, her very gentle act of grace.
Cold is your chest, a beating drum of fire.
She sent you kisses of her wind, displaying her desire.
Warm is the love that is sprinkled on your purple lips.
You ate it up so doubtlessly, indulging in the feast.
Glacial is the night, as she howls her hymn of rage.
She stands before you naked, her face sunken from bitter age.
So rained a vicious storm of hail, a portrait of your cold betrayal.
So cold the night is still.
Now frozen is your heart,
and blanketed with ill.