Cold heat burns in the hush of night, a frost that glows with hidden fire. It chills the skin yet feels so right, a cruel embrace of dark desire.
It whispers soft where shadows sleep,
a flame disguised in icy hue.
The heart it stirs, the soul it keeps,
a paradox both false and true.
Cold heat consumes with gentle pain,
a blaze that freezes as it flows.
It looks like winter dressed as rain,
and blooms where no true summer grows.
Still, in that frost the pulse remains,
a quiet spark beneath the freeze.
For even love, through loss and chains,
can warm the cold with memories.