The Temperature Is Dropping

Would it help to write a letter, as puddles turn to icy 
lakes? The temperature is dropping;
the temperature is dropping with every breath or life it 
takes. And baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, baby, I guess it 
wouldn't be bad - if street lights and the cold nights in 
between - were all we ever had.

[Make] simultaneous maps of cities, states of heart, or the
 heart of states. And I keep on hoping, and I keep on 
asking to stay awake or hibernate. And maybe, maybe, maybe,
 maybe, maybe, maybe, our marks can make it through the 
snow. But even words can wither in the frost,
if all we ever know is this beating pulse
that slows to less than one beat per minute before the 
spring thaw. Do we measure days or years? Or are we tired 
of waiting? And is it a luxury, or survival, or all that we
 have?