1:22 AM
I cannot sleep; for the pureness that blankets the outdoors seems only to mock me - the moons' incandescence lending that wistful glow of vain contentment. And so mine eye wanders snowy contour, pausing at the blemish of rock and pine; disconcerted by the topple of barren branch; counting the bristle of an ivy bush; staring intent, inwards, deeply: deciphering those frigid drifts within the winds, within my mind which proves the storm.
Cast off this frigid hour - I want it not; wishing, no, praying for those same blusters provoke me to my final sigh: eternal frigid grace. For my weary eyes are but the eaves upon which cling the frozen daggers of despair: to balance only so precariously on the stone which is my heart.
Thaw me. Breathe not longingly nor with pity on the rigid, coarse limb which is my arm; breathe only so that I may feel your presence: inexplicable, surreal. And I will feel with bitterness the warmth, the rapture of your perspiring brow as you cajole my expiring limbs towards the ferocity of heat set hearth. And I will long for loathingly the stubble of your chin to revive the lines upon my forehead - brushing me carelessly in such a way that inspires the hush of contentment. But I know no such contentment; for my hearth is more so the proprietor of blackened ash than the impish flames of madness: for, yes, I rather madness than the frostbite of restless despair.
But I cannot sleep, and these blusters bring not that final sigh; this hour is but the avarice of my resolve. To endure this bluster for the weathering of another?
I cannot sleep. And so I freeze.
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