She's cold. Not to touch, because you remember being pressed up against her, heat radiating between you, and lips leaving a trail of fire across your stomach. You remember being pushed up against that door, her lips on your neck. Warm hands, soft skin, moving as one.
Then you wake in the morning, reaching out for her, to find the sheets tangled up in you and you alone. They're cold now, just like her. It's like this every time, yet you still find yourself hoping that this time she will have stayed. She never does.
When you ask her to stay, she tells you she'll try
When you tell her you love her, she doesn't reply.
You could get lost in her eyes, if she let you that is. She doesn't, and she can't see she's hurting you. Because she's cold.