The frost paints on the fragile windowpane,
A garden white within the urban hush.
But in my hand, your hand grows deft again—
A secret fire defying morning’s blush.
Your breath is both the harsh and tender gale,
It carves out valleys brimming with desire.
The world sleeps wrapped in frost’s translucent veil,
Yet our love will not yield to the fire.
Deep passion lies, an ocean under ice,
Where our gazes burn so sharp and clear.
And every kiss is like a holy prize
That melts the very core of winter’s air.
Past midnight, now, the hourglass is turned,
A newborn year ascends the copper sky.
And through the night, our scattered star has burned
With hope—so fervent, sacred, and so high.