Love is suppose to be of many splendid things,

Of passion, and care, and heat

And it is,

To those who are able to share in such a treat.

Things for some are not of heat or of care,

Its of something like winters chill.

But not like a little breeze,

Its like ice's biting kill

I can't get warm with you,

Nor can I with my fickle toy,

And I learn a very cruel lesson in this,

That without a flame, I can't find joy.

I'm sorry I don't feel anything for you

And I'm sorry that I almost left you for that player

But he left and I stayed with you,

So now I can't help but feel like I'm in a perpetual prayer.

Now he's happy.

You're clueless.

I'm crying.

And our relationship is fruitless.

Frozen in Winters Icy Cold.