Tonight I am in a state of melancholia.

My room is dreadfully cold, colder still than the world outside its walls. I stepped out for a smoke and heard the sound of peepers off in the woods, down near the reservoir. I was surrounded by the smell of rotted leaves, and wet bark, and my burning cigarette. The scents danced, split off in tendrils, then waves, then coalesced filling the air about me as I shivered. I shook violently, as my body could not heat itself. I flicked ash, I exhaled heavy sighs of phantasmal vapor. I watched as my soul sluiced free. Still there upon my chest lay a heavy hand over a heavy heart, for I am grieving for the loss of love, and I am feeling very lonesome on this eve of nature's rise from winters slumber.

I dialed the number, then hung up the phone, then dialed again. I made small talk, I queried meekly about recent days, of health, of happiness. I spoke not my heart. That voice is muted by a cold reptilian intellect fixed on maintaining all manner of social convention. My more mammalian half concerned itself more on matters of empathy, and caution for the fairness of feelings, for the well being of her whom I love, and who loves me still.

There is violence in our hearts. Where they meet an eye, a whirlwind of fire, and passion, and misery.
The matter of our nature, cancels out that of the others.
we fly apart with such force as if the world is shaking us off.

No I'm just shivering again.

I come back inside, and can no longer feel my fingers. I fumble with my lighter, slipping it back into my pocket.
I stare at the screen. I see her staring back at me, and can't help but wonder why it is i feel this way now.

Left with nothing but fabricated feelings, and fleeting memories, and the inescapable sense that deep inside, something is missing, and in that lack lies the source of my chill.