Gripping the cube,
Your release.
But the trickle from your fist is colourless now,
it's not red anymore.
the burn, though cold, fades.

I love that painting on the pinkish canvas,
but i beg of you;
grip the cube instead of the brush.
The cold, your enemy,
will succumb to the warmth of your handshake
if you persevere.

I see your mom's reflection
in the bottle released, rolling away from her,
from her unconcious hand.
It makes me cry.

Water into wine never did cut it
for me. That's no miracle.
But turn ice into water
for me. No. For you.
Do that and I'll swear;
you are the second coming of yourself.

In time, it's not just
the ice that melts.