What is this? (where ice warms to smiles)

Your eyes, they stare deep
And your lips, they kiss hard,
And I whisper;
"I don't want it to be this."
You move, move an inch,
A voice, soft as stone,
And a tear of air.
"And what, what is this?"

To you, it is
Love. Or desire. Or just the need
to have interlaced fingers.
It is the blue of the
Heart of the fire
before the seasons turn to ice.
It is the knowledge that upon this garish earth
Where snow melts to war,
Ice warms to smiles,
You will burn as many hearts as will love you.

To me, it is surrendering to a
beautiful storm;
Letting the thunder grip me, open palmed.
But thinking,
Always thinking:
What, what is this?