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.”