He was cold
          like fire seared Iceland wetness
              like hardened rock on dirty water

He was soft
    like gently melting snow
         In silver buckets
             His tears tossed and gleamed without meaning

He had icicles for eyes
            And hands cold enough to cut through surfaces

But oh, how I loved him

Bending down to pick the wind
         He would hold it in his hands gently

In weak filtered light
      His wandering green eyes shone
             Rousing up keening edges of remembrance

Holding him, I could feel his heart beat slowly
           And I prayed that he would not make me suffer