Drip

Spilling from the lintel, a pitcher saves the ice from anonymity. Rafters creak, the sounds of winter rattle through the cabin eerily. Memories are dead and gone. Whistles of wind, the monotony whispers and drags through the days like a chilling lament. Hours burn slowly, embers refusing to ebb, reminiscences stutter and fade, he is chilled to the bone. Evenings and mornings now bleed with the same deep regret; he is losing all feeling, spending his last days alone.