Shot flash fiction pieces and poems that belong nowhere else. Orphans.
You have ruined my routines.
You have wormed your way into my bones. You are there in the marrow, in the blood, sliding through the veins behind my eyelids and painting pictures when I try to sleep. I am awake all night thinking of you, dissecting all your pieces and nuances and cutting up your words and rearranging them in poems on the floor:
I think/ you are someone/ I could love/ someone/ could love/ you are/ I think/ I could/ love/ you are.
Someone said once, nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me more sad than you do.
And there is that image of your pupils dilated until I can’t see the colour of your eyes, just big black holes, and I think maybe your eyes are universes and maybe we are living in one of those tiny specks of colour swirling round a Higher Being’s pupil, and look: the paper on his tongue and look: our world is swallowed up in the blackness.
Somewhere in a bed in a room in a building you are sleeping and here in this building in this room in this bed I am awake.