A Touch of Ice

The trough was narrow and deep; as was his mind and mouth. Cold and inaccessible.

Mounds or crevice, little difference to the indifference of its surface; an interface without virtue.

The sheer gloss was absent in any sort of conversation, but for an unassailable relentless burn to the fingertips of anyone trying to climb beyond it.

Love had nothing to do with it.

Crush to the final melt.

Linear.