i am made of ice, my smile permafrost,
and my cold and beat-less heart makes no sound.
i am steady, and my morals never get me lost.
my eyes are open; both my feet are on the ground.
you are radioactive, made of too much energy;
your many neutrons may make you one day come undone.
you are made of fire, and i think you’re burning free;
am i ready or not? here you come.
meeting you was terrifying:
i felt myself slipping.
i didn’t want to lose myself to
the person that i was kissing.
my properties are changing;
don’t you think that’s odd?
is change of state chemical? just physical?
i always got that question wrong.
my permafrost smile is wearing, tearing,
getting very thin, but
since i met you, i’ve been defrosting, and
there’s no more frost under my skin.
(and though i doubt that is your intent,
with your heat, you look poised to destroy.
and despite myself, i feel myself giving in;
before it ends me, i will try to enjoy.)
i want to be in a state of thermal equilibrium with you,
but that’s impossible; our temperatures are too different.
though exciting, it’s exhausting to have different body heats;
we were never meant to be an equivalence relation.
you apply to me heat, but you still make me do work:
you make my head spin and you make my heart whirl.
the sweat on my hands is a sign of my temperature difference,
and because i’m a closed system, it only makes sense:
you make me warm, and i make you cold,
and you make me melt, and i make you bold,
if stiff, when you kiss me, but strong nonetheless,
and i ask myself if i’m slipping, and you answer, “yes”.
and i slip, and i melt, under every caress,
and to change is to be in a state of duress,
but i promise, i’ll try not to give into my stress.
my properties changing, i whisper, “kiss me.”