They call us cold
because we don’t waste fire on strangers.
Ice on the outside.
Volcano underneath.
In my frosty blue eyes
you see the fire —
the kind that waits,
the kind that chooses.
You don’t hear it in the silence,
in the way I hold my coffee,
in the way I measure words.
But get close.
Close enough to feel the pulse
behind the ribs.
That’s when Thor stirs in the spine.
That’s when Fenris stretches in the hips.
That’s when Luzifer leans in and whispers:
don’t pretend you don’t feel this.
I don’t ****** with roses.
I ****** with gravity.
With a look that says
I will hold you steady
while your old walls fall.
There is heat here that remembers glaciers.
There is touch that carries storms.
There is breath that sounds like fjords opening.
They think we’re distant.
Until they learn
that Vikings don’t flirt —
we arrive.
And when we do,
even saints reconsider their vows.
Feb 28
Feb 28, 2026 at 11:21 AM UTC
They call us cold
because we don’t waste fire on strangers.
Ice on the outside.
Volcano underneath.
In my frosty blue eyes
you see the fire —
the kind that waits,
the kind that chooses.
You don’t hear it in the silence,
in the way I hold my coffee,
in the way I measure words.
But get close.
Close enough to feel the pulse
behind the ribs.
That’s when Thor stirs in the spine.
That’s when Fenris stretches in the hips.
That’s when Luzifer leans in and whispers:
don’t pretend you don’t feel this.
I don’t ****** with roses.
I ****** with gravity.
With a look that says
I will hold you steady
while your old walls fall.
There is heat here that remembers glaciers.
There is touch that carries storms.
There is breath that sounds like fjords opening.
They think we’re distant.
Until they learn
that Vikings don’t flirt —
we arrive.
And when we do,
even saints reconsider their vows.
This piece was sparked by something my wife once said when someone asked why Norwegians seem so cold. She smiled and answered, “Not when you close the bedroom door.” I suppose this is my poetic reply to that — frost on the surface, fire underneath.
