Take away the dawn chorus

It's nighttime again. Though the sun just rose, barely, but completely, I must say -- it feels cold. Shivery. I shiver. Though it's Saturday morning, and I've nowhere to go, I walk briskly. The air feels chilled, the stars all look put out, bleary and watery above my head. Bleak and heavy. I often can't help it but smile at the most innapropriate of times, although thankfully it happens mostly when I am alone. I must stop worrying

about you --

it isn't my responsibility to any more.

And I hate you, in this moment. I hate your very shape. I hate this battle we've been fighting, and my attempt to veil it all with philosophical spin, and I hate our thoughts, together. So I'll leave it at that, darling, I'll put down my pen, I think. The wind puts its lone splintered fingers through my hair in a wail, in an ease of triumph. It is all that has done so in an awfully long while, and no I am not bitter. I understand. Later when at home I'll hack off chunks and snarl cruelly at the mirror, it's the only way, darling, brutal and nondescipt it will look afterwards, I will probably cry. Spend £33.50 and be back where I started and whine that it doesn't suit my face. For you. For lack of you.

The damn cold wind. This is a lovesong of incorrect proportions. I look up to the sky to the scales, and they brim over with warmth. Your incorrect warmth. My incorrect heart. I'll lose it all utterly, in the glitter-fine glimpse of a single hair shedded, drifting slowly to the ground. And another. And another. A heartbeat, continuous. I really mustn't connect these things.