Staring, he tried to recall what had happened; each rain drop against the windowpane was an incarnation of each regret and mistake he’d made by her. Viscous as lava he pulled his gaze away from the grey dawn, lying to rest on a small collection of items sitting on the end table by the mahogany door. A quiet breath of a sob left his chest, his ribcage deflating, body collapsing. His face wrenched into his hands, sobs no longer quiet, but heaving and weighted.
Weighted denser than osmium the sobs possessed him, his body convulsing, and cries of deepest despair encased the young horologist. Lips curled in a fashion suggesting great suffering, he forced open the once honey-hazel, analytical eyes and stared at the blur that had become his surroundings; though he very well knew what he was looking for, where he was looking… what he was looking at.
The objects seemed to glisten, though no extra light shone upon it, “Don’t do this to me! Don’t linger!” cried the grieving heart, “Please, go where you belong, I cannot indulge in fantasy anymore…” His voice decayed, the ends of his plead barely audible to him, not enough air used to change the course of steam.
(this is not finished)