These nights are saturnine; glacial breaths held in mild discomfort of the mind and severe despondency of the heart. Each measured beat of rhythm and clicks only brought sychronised agonies; throbbing, burning.
Exhalations wisped invisibly into the bitter air. Salt granules remained crystallised as swallowing became harder. Inflamed and raw; a gaping emptiness left in the maw. There was no place for maudlin expressions; only angry, tearless sighs.
Subdued and reticent, but no amount of rumination could heal. Evasive tergiversations only aggrevated and scorched. Maybe such a feeling is an end to itself. And, maybe, its the end.