04belgarion2k7

It was the colour of your eyes. The pale coldness of a winter morning rising over the sea; the clear mind and open heart as you stood silhouetted against the empty, promise-filled sky. It was the colour of my hands before you wrapped yours around them and pulled me off for adventure. The colour of my lips before you breathed your deeper colour into them and melted me like deep frost. The colour I saw when you first danced with me into the night on a bed of stars, honesty beaming from you like a mirror with the power to heal hearts. It was the colour I saw darken into angry oceans, the colour I saw swim with salty seas in defeat and joy. It

The quiet. That's what struck me most about the place. Not the silence, because it wasn't silent: the air was alive with sounds so clear that you could hear for miles. The train on the mainland rushing past like a cannon in the distance, the water slapping gently against the pebbles. The wind whistled gaily, caressing my ears on the way past. I could hear birds wings as they soared above my head in the quiet. The pulsing of my own heart, reaching out to the sounds of nature around me. It was there that I realised true quiet; the silence I craved was not silence at all. The island had an aura of power - not just the terrific natural forces tha

Brown bread bin in the corner, Lit up underneath One of many wooden panels. Glasses tucked, one into another, Kept apart by thin white tissue (To prevent scratches). Lined up beside ‘The World’s Greatest Grandmother!’ Hidden behind the fine china. Chrome fridge divided, By colour, taste, expiry dates. Wall-window looked to the Old greenhouse, a stately palace of heat If I behaved this time. Assembly Of God registration plate Parked exactly a metre from raspberries Full of summer jam. The forbidden taste Of bittersweet juice under the window Or behind the battered black shed; Hiding places around the back. Racks of nails,

Your familiar step, creaking the stair Last thing at night. The slow opening Of the door, crossing between the light hallway And the darkness of my room, to where I lie. My eyes, half-closed in the Luscious blackness, wait in sleepy silence. Your fumbling caution in the blinding transitional light Coming from the lamps of sodium dreams. A quiet curse, laughter bubbles through my drowsy lips In a slurred giggle. Between dreams and reality, I feel the worn bed springs resist the weight. But your body moulds to mine nonetheless. Cold hands on my sleep-heated skin, A shock of pleasure, smoothing from your hands. Cool but warm body curved to

There is no outside. Everything I was taught from birth until now centers around this one, indisputable, obvious fact. Outside does not exist. Or rather, it does exist, but there is nothing there for us except a vast nothingness on the edge of our world. You can be outside a room, or outside the house, or outside your own head, but an outside beyond that did not exist. There was just nothing there. So what was I faced with now? Outside. A rugged, blasted brown stretch that never seemed to end, a vast emptiness full of colour, yawning on past my vision, and full of space, glistening patches of blue water and shoots of what looked like grass.

Two chairs on the porch, Where sat only one. Two cars in the drive, But only one runs. Two coats in the hallway Hanging up to dry. Two toothbrushes sitting, One of them dry. Four shoes by the front door, Waiting to be worn. Four gloves on the heater Trying to keep warm. Two plates in the sink, And one of them clean. Two souls in the house; Just one of them seen. Two decades of being joined, In mind, body, soul. Two years of being one; One half of one whole.

He came to my house, dust Ridden and tired, as though the sins Of the world were upon him. He stopped and said the ritual words Of greeting, but we did not touch. Everyone craned forward to hear. The rabble stood around, just to hear A single arable; a story woven from the dust Just as they were, like beggars. One touched My cloak and I recoiled as the sins Flowed into my pure body, mixing words And actions into something like him. They loved him So much, they just pushed forward to hear About how we were wrong, and our words Were false. Only his words are true. The dust Floated in the sticky heat from body to body: the sweat of sin In the