ACT I
Cold hands in an unstarry night,
an unknown murderer in need of a light.
A broken blanket, the hands are still cold.
I roll down the hill, you wait for the storm.
The clouds go away, I want them to stay.
ACT II
Your voice becomes an echo.
Like a thunder in the distance.
Then I get it, just with a glance...
You were the storm I was under.
ACT III
I light your death, my hands are warm.
I never needed your embrace at all.

In the distance, I observe
hoping to discover them raw feelings
our souls serve.
Sometimes without even warning us.

We fall but we don't break,
and when we break we feel
like we're falling.

Always in the distance,
I observe.

You can either feel the coldness
of my words of ice
slipping through
these snow white pages
or feel my burning chest
melting the frozen stare
you're holding.

How come I can't stay focused?
I tend to overthink...

What is it that is making me waste all this ink?