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.
And our relationship is fruitless.
Frozen in Winters Icy Cold.