It’s too cold

It’s cold outside, almost too cold to breathe.
The sun shines with an icy power which burns the naked skin.
Eyes water in the bright light which reflects off pavement and snow, and the tears turn to ice before they hit the ground.
This is the kind of cold which makes stone statues crumble and crack.
This is the kind of cold which penetrates coats and socks.
This is the kind of cold which matches your heart.
In reality, though, nothing could parallel that.
If you placed your heart outside in the snow, it may warm up a few degrees.
The cool of your love and the heat of passion never did mix well.  Your icy glare could smother any burning flame of fire.  You could fly too close to the burning sun with your icy waxen wings and they would not melt.
You must love days like this, days where the passionate find the air too cold to breathe; you must feel right at home.
This cold could not pierce your steel exterior,
Just as the flame of passion could not.

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