Silver tongues use flowery words
to paint lust and heat as one -
they call it fire,
and claim we're children of the sun.
A pretty lie: Lust is not heat.
It is the frozen erasure of humanity.
It is face-blurring,
flaw-concealing frost,
surviving only at an arm's length.
It is standing in a blizzard of longing,
each snowflake of your own making,
aching for her warmth,
her softness,
like cold blood begging for a pulse.
But when you
finally
meet her lips,
all your hunger
runs off like meltwater,
a deluge leaving nothing behind.
Lust is not heat.
It is frostbite;
slowly numbing and deadening,
until you cannot feel what you've lost,
and
can no longer tell what's been taken.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 3:56 PM UTC
Silver tongues use flowery words
to paint lust and heat as one -
they call it fire,
and claim we're children of the sun.
A pretty lie: Lust is not heat.
It is the frozen erasure of humanity.
It is face-blurring,
flaw-concealing frost,
surviving only at an arm's length.
It is standing in a blizzard of longing,
each snowflake of your own making,
aching for her warmth,
her softness,
like cold blood begging for a pulse.
But when you
finally
meet her lips,
all your hunger
runs off like meltwater,
a deluge leaving nothing behind.
Lust is not heat.
It is frostbite;
slowly numbing and deadening,
until you cannot feel what you've lost,
and
can no longer tell what's been taken.
Perhaps love is warm, but lust is certainly hell frozen over. As all of us yearners know the best way to **** a crush is to get to know them.