Threshold

The cold is creeping
into my veins,
threading ice,
tracing the pathways
beneath my skin
to the hollows of my heart.

It murmurs softly:
“Rest. Be still.”

Lulling me,
blunting my awareness
with a deadening chill,
even as my flesh aches
with the memory of warmth.

My breath begins to slow,
the rhythm of an unwound clock,
fading –
fading –
the edges between
flesh and frost
blurring
as my pulse dulls
to a dying echo.

Until I am nothing more,
nothing more
than stillness
and ice.