It spills
—from whence?—
a cold and utter desolate feeling.

Emptiness tramples every crevice of my chest.

A moment of sentiment
—with whom?—
gone within a second's passing.

Indifference crawls upon the contorted curves of my spine.

Disappointment. Dread; An inkling of defiance.
—What does my heart tell me?—
None, as I feared.

It is quiet.
It is still.
It is dead.