There are days burning
Consumed by internal fires
But cool to the touch
Touch
Hold
Warmth grows to heat
Heat to boiling
There are days of ice
Only the slow sight trapped
Warmth melting
But nothing but sorrow is freed
Hold
Hold on
Touch. Hold. See.
Burned in the choosing
Frigid in the losing
Some choices are close enough for regret.
Pelgris 