We were held somewhere between love and hate, where lust shines like the sun and the moon.
I could never quite say I love you, but I could never quite feel hate.
I could only want you under my body or under the ground.
And if I closed my eyes tight enough and wished really, really hard, I could pretend at least for a moment, that maybe it was so close to love that it was real. Or maybe just a little longer and it would come to fruition.
But you become cold without love in your heart. Your fingers become ice when you touch someone without love behind it.
When our bodies collided in the dark, frost would kiss the windows and our breath became visible. The heat between us would sizzle out as soon as our chests were heaving afterward.
I had come to like the cold.
I guess it had been killing you.