Mistress of the Cold

I took a long draw on my lit cigarette.
No, it did not keep me warm but it kept a fire going,
in the snow banked ditch, I had made
(no more matches and only 4 cigarettes left).
 
My thoughts drift pointlessly in search of the basis  
for my obsession to possess the woman who had caused me to
live out my few precious hours in winter's numbing bosom.
  
An icy zephyr pierced through my clothing and I
remembered how in the same way my lost love sent chills  
up every tissue of my being.
  
Her shoulders grew, grew ever so cold.  Colder by each
passing desert winter night.
  
She did not leave me.  I had to run.  Exiled from her  
whom I could not hold.
  
Still I love the women spirit.  The ghostly Mistress of
the Cold.
  
The fire grows weak and useless.  I huddle with the little
I have left and I give in to the cold, to dream.
  
Sephyrs of no particular temperature echo in my mind
and an overwhelming calm casts its shadow upon me.
  
I now see her.
  
She embraces my soul and warms my frozen heart.  I love
her more and I am content with the reasons for her
past zero temperatures.
  
All that matters now is that I am within her soul
and she within mine and not even death can separate us  ----
ever. . .
  
Behold!
  
Out in airless space,
I am a nova and she -- a black hole;
I am consumed and still I love her,
the Mistress of the Cold.