Frozen Love

It started in fire, in the fever of wanting, in lust so bright it burned away sleep,
But frost came quietly, dusting the tongue, creeping up thighs, seeping into bones too deep–
Now the bed is a block of ice, the air cold enough to crack teeth, the mattress remembers heat only as myth,
Each kiss a ceremonial act, an echo of old pleasure, both players numb to the growing rift.
No argument started this, no betrayal required, just the slow freeze of familiarity and years,
Words once whispered in darkness have become icicles–sharp, useless, silent as the trail of dried tears.
Touch is obligatory, a cold hand brushing a colder cheek,
Fingers clumsy, indifferent, trying to resurrect something no longer unique.
Sex is a memory performed for ghosts, a frostbitten prayer to bodies that no longer believe,
Both lovers fantasizing escape, both too tired to leave.

Outside, the world is melting, but inside this cage, every hope congeals and dies,
Flesh starves for heat, hearts rot in the snowdrift of lies.
Love is an artifact, a statue etched from old desire–
No fire left, just the ritual of climbing into bed and pretending to admire
The cracks in the ceiling, the groan of the pipes, the distant sound of traffic in the rain,
And knowing that whatever warmth once lived here will never come again.
Still they remain, two prisoners locked in a cell built from silence and broken trust,
Frozen love–a monument to the way passion turns to rust.