Frozen, Breakable Glass

  It's a small window, with wood frames and frozen glass. The outside is covered with ice, the inside warm next to the fire beside me. Trees sway outside, snow drifting off their branches. The ground is like a white ocean, the window only giving a glimpse of its surface. Small snowflakes fall in front of the window, and I can see their little arms breaking off as they hit the stool of the window. 
  I lay my hand on the frozen glass, feeling the cold and wishing, instead, I could feel the warmth. 
  I lay my hand on the frozen glass, wishing I could stand under the trees and feel the snow drop on to my head.
  I lay my hand on the frozen glass, wishing my heart wasn't as empty and chilled as the glass. 
  The last time I saw you, you couldn't walk. You couldn't talk. You couldn't eat. You couldn't recognize me or my sisters or my dad or my mom. Your skin was ice, your mind was frozen in a time long ago, when bombs shook the world outside your window, when white oceans layered your grounds. 
  When you were trapped behind a window, when your heart was empty and chilled, was there a frail old lady you wished you could see? Was there an unwavering fear that you might not get to see her again? Was there a hope that things could be as they used to be? 
  I have questions for you. I have a million questions for you. But none of them will be answered, will they? Because your voice is trapped inside of your beating heart, fragile and delicate. 
  I can't imagine a world without you. 
  I can't imagine when I'll drown in a white ocean as soon as you're not here anymore. 
  Will I scream? Will I cry? Will my tears freeze into ice droplets, forever engraved into my cheeks? Or will my drowning be silent? Will I succumb to the coldness? 
  Will you succumb to the coldness? 
  I can't imagine when my intricate heart of frozen and breakable glass will shatter into a thousand pieces because your heart of frozen and breakable glass melted inside of you.