The cooling engine was likened to breath
once pouring clouds into the air, fading
into the absolute nothingness. Death
on any uncertain terms would just sing.
The sound of our voices far from ringing
over the quieted tone of Thom Yorke.
And yet, I could feel my cold heart singing.
You confided in me, your eyes a cork
relieving bottled up pressure beneath.
I brushed the fire from your deep hazel eyes,
and it caught my heart ablaze in a wreath.
Finally here, a role I would reprise
At this moment I knew my heart was taken,
but in your eyes the sign just read vacant.