to the stars who listen: poetry

13. frost flowers

she cups frost flowers in her warm hands, and hearts melt at her gossamer touch.
her fingers interlaced with magic
smooth yet not supple; a marble princess
she is handcrafted by fairies and colder than warmth.
her heart glazed over like an ice river.
then, late one July,
you pierced the cold.
oozing, seeping came the emotion; raw and hot,
once abandoned, unfelt, ignored,
it trickled like lava
and scorched her inside.
she survived the eruption,
and flooded by warmth,
she cherished the frost flowers her fingertips conjured,
as a reminder of the magic residing inside her
that no amount of toxic love could blaze away.
when I met her, she was warm, inviting, and she handed me the frost flowers
and asked me to keep them forever in exchange for my heart.
I still have them. if she ever breaks my heart,
I will melt, snap or break every single crystallised petal. it's like a promise we share, not quite a threat. cold to the marrow and warm to the flesh.