Her Cold Lips

It lays heavy upon my heart to feel this darkness again, my once and eternal friend. The clawed, ravenous thing that kept me so connected to my words. I am disconnected from them now, distanced and wandering. My muse lies cold in the ground, under the browned leaves. Her lips do not touch my own, but I can feel the ache from where they once lay, and I wonder if she will ever rise again to bestow upon me the grand gifts she once did.

The slick, greasy black that rises to greet me is familiar, yet unwelcomed in my current life. I remember it, even wanted it to return for a spell, but I am ill prepared to deal with the weight of it all, dragging me ever downward into the abyss of the coming months.

How will I survive? Will I emerge from the Winter whole and intact, or will I once again chip away at myself in order to maintain some semblance of who I am, or was? In the end, will the darkness carry off what is left of my tissue-paper thin soul? What happens if I simply close my eyes and allow it?