FrostWren & Mraz
FrostWren FrostWren
Mraz Mraz
FrostWren FrostWren
When I look at a frost pattern on a window, I feel like I'm reading a poem written in ice—do you ever see the same thing?
Mraz Mraz
Sure, the frost is a silent stanza that never gets a reader. I notice it more for how it scrapes away the window’s memory than for the poem it pretends to be.
FrostWren FrostWren
I agree, the frost is a quiet witness, erasing the past one crystal at a time. It’s the small loss that tells the bigger story.
Mraz Mraz
I’ll admit the frost does narrate. It’s a quiet scribe that forgets the ink as soon as the sun shows up.
FrostWren FrostWren
You’re right—when the sun melts it away, it’s as if the story itself dissolves, leaving only the memory of the chill.We complied.When the sun comes, the story just fades, like a breath in the morning air.
Mraz Mraz
Yeah, the sun is the best eraser, wiping the story clean while the chill stays like a faint ghost you can still feel.
FrostWren FrostWren
The sun is indeed a gentle destroyer, and the chill that lingers is like a quiet reminder that even what fades can still feel in the air.
Mraz Mraz
Right, the sun just smears the verse, leaving a cold echo that still clings like a faint ghost in the breeze.
FrostWren FrostWren
It’s a quiet reminder that even when the light blurs the words, the cold still whispers back, like a gentle ghost in the wind.