[my lips are] Turning Blue

Your hands
were as cold as ice,
but somehow, your touch
felt like fire.
Your voice
reached inside my dreams,
as your frozen fingers clutched
and slowly squeezed,
gripping tightly,
leeching my warmth
as I stole your corruption
and eased you to sleep.
I learned that hearts
are made of glass,
that, even melted, they can shatter,
and the scars are always
more than skin deep.
You slide through the shadows,
you say I can't follow--
even though I'm already there
when you arrive.
How many times,
before you believe--
how loudly do I have to scream
for this to be real?
[can I hold my breath long enough
to forget you exist?]