Corners.Take the upper hand,Corners.
you know it's yours.
This is a weakness I have never felt, terrifying moments of generosity and giving, the depths of kindness exposed like petals peeled from the core of a tightly wound flower. I don't know why I sit here, lie alone in the corners and quietly
Aged.A man sits in a chair. He sits as if sitting is effort, and standing is an unreachable ambition. Slumped back into the pillows, brown and dirty and milled by Oxfam. He is old. His skin looks like it has been worn too many times, by too many different people, and lies in folds of discarded taffeta across his body.Aged.
He sucks his lips. On the inside. Chews over the only smooth flesh left to him. It draws his face into a grimace as he stares blankly at the television, which mocks him with images of a world he recognises only through the Daily Mail, cups of tea, and the BBC. Radio Four,
but not the books. Why c
The Moon.The moon's not full. Or if it is,The Moon.
it's got a dent in it.
You told me to come outside and look. Maybe your hair was in your face again, and that's why you couldn't see it. Maybe wherever you were, in Bristol or Brighton or Bangkok, the moon was full,
not dented. Not a half smile, or a squint-wink, a lingering tease or a sentence kissed away. Not so unfinished as us. Not quite so almost or inbetween.
"I love you like that moon," you said.
'Oh no,'
I thought.
Moment.We stole some little pieces of the sun. You stole yours from heaven,Moment.
but I stole mine from your girlfriend.
Every cup of whiskey I drink, I use to sink the thoughts of you. Tie them to an anchor and drown them at the bottom of my memory.
But every glass of wine I sip, brings me a little closer to something of you. The time we drank that year from hot mugs in the kitchen by the radiator. The smell you wore in Summer that you left at my house, and were too ashamed to come back for.
Or was that me. Me that you were too ashamed to come back for.
I would be.
I'm too as
-Expectant-
The Drug Called LoveMy soul, soothed. My heart, healed. My mind, mended. I have found love.The Drug Called Love
CornwallThe Creek at MylorCornwall
A single beacon haunts the creek, Patrolled by silhouettes Of Cornish folk and Kernow’s fleet.
The tide has ploughed
With its hand and has chalked Its way home, to sea and cloud.
The trees on the skyline shake a fist Against the saddened midnight mist.
The evening fled without a fight, Summoning this empty night.
Firewood
Until I run out of firewood I will always pine for you. The kindling carries a constant glow, The wood bursts; it does not matter if it should. A whirlwind
Living/Apology.
Jolly
.
--
08 FEB 2005
--
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
--
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
I'm Becky, I'm in the year below, you probably don't know me because I'm a ghost.
--
No.
Or do I mean yes?
What was the question? Was there a question?
Who could have asked it, if there was? Is there anyone else here?
... hello?
Of course I know you,
I have a terrible habit of noticing everyone.
Especially ghosts.
--
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
I would say I live at school, and this would be true, if I could safely claim to live at all.
--
No.
Or do I mean yes?
What was the question? Was there a question?
Who could have asked it, if there was? Is there anyone else here?
... hello?
Is what they do while they're doing it that counts :]
--
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
hey there favoriteauthor (: (:
happy holidays and new years!
may it be relaxing and filled with joy and inspiration
love,
panda
--
I miss you most when you're around.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you too. I hope you have a wonderful time.
Much Love,
TP.
--
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
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