drops of jupiter/ in a burning room

- oh, for a place of beauty.

because i've been to milky-blue lakes and ancient glaciers, and skies rolling beyond the sea. i've seen steppes and boys riding bareback on horses, leaping up and galloping wild into the fields. i've seen mountains that moved me to silent whispers, streams that rippled crystal clear over smooth oval pebbles.

i've seen the sea in sepia, i've seen it in technicolor. i've seen the sun set in splendour that took my breath away; i saw the moon rise from behind the hill, near enough to touch. i'll always remember, perhaps, trying to catch the moon. thank you, you who were once here, for imagining with me, precisely for not saying, the moon cannot be caught.

beauty is no longer part of my daily living, and what we don't see - reality|memory is- nothing more substantial than a film of tracing paper. more than that, something within has lain down and closed its eyes, that once was alive. it doesn't live here, it can't.

- time: a matter of colour shading in, -and sleep is a smell.