In dry cracked lips he broke some words,
Feeble mutter aimed to light,
Like a dim flame to burn the night.

Faint flickers stood doused in mist,
Gathering heavy in his laden eyes.
His face white as arctic ice,
An icicle dripped in eyelids wide.

“Some words are drizzle that pour so quiet,
Washing away the tinge of our heart,
Our beloved yearning takes a different path,
Ignoring our lips to our own surprise. “

Holding a glint her hands played with fire,
That warmed nothing but own pride,
Tossing words like chunks of wood,
Those were to burn in benumbed pyres.

A blizzard was gathering outside their fold,
Trapping the traveler in snuggled earflaps,
Who heard nothing of a raging storm,
Obtuse to the crystals in his eyelid sleet.

Her words feigning indifferent and cold,
The night escaped over frozen windowpanes,
Fading in strange patterns of frost.
“Tonight was very cold” he muttered,
“Yes minus seven” she replied,
Playing indifferently with glint-stones.