It’s cold out.

I’m cold. Beyond the chilled tips of my fingers and numbing toes, as the remnants of a migraine subtly thuds at the back of my skull, I find my heart has iced, frosty chips affixed to the frozen ventricles, glistening like tiny gems in the darkness of my chest cavity.

There are no flaming bonfires of hope keeping it beating. The last flicker wasted to an ember turned to soot and minimal ash. It has all been swept away.

I am a tundra.

Nothing lives. It is quiet save for the howling of my sorrow’s wind.

I stand outside feeling the temperature drop. I used to love the change of seasons for precisely this reason. Nothing like the drop in weather and the fierce Autumnal gusts to make one feel Alive. To Feel, period.

I cannot feel my face. I cannot feel.

Maybe it is better this way.