walls have sheltered me, each room written over as i walk to the next.

next to me, the space is alive. possibility is calling with encounters from across time.

the shadow-side of invention.

you can turn both ways, open or close, in the turning we live in motion.

at the breaking point i turned, part metamorphosing into something untouchable, part trapped beneath.

the sleight of hand, the white handkerchief, the white bird over the blue sea.

teach me to listen past your sentence. teach me to hold your severance. teach me the world from your window.

we still hold hands, your promise and my fear keeps us on the line.

i open windows, forge gaps in the moving parts to call, anyone there? the house becomes perforated by the night.

some of us are better scavengers than others, but we are all primed for a glint of silver.

gauge the feel of the space, is it in balance? safe enough? light enough? is there chance for growth?

ransack the cupboards, dig through the paperwork, patterns form from accumulation.

we foster nightmares. with ingenuity.

often i stand at the brink of empty, craving someone's validation, please rest your hand on my head, and mark my growth with a firm line.

light flickers on the last leaves, the storm grey biding, time to haul in and hang on.

who passes the drawn curtains of your room, as you lie facing down the foot end of your bed, 5 years and measuring, how your hair almost touches the floor, busy drawing adventures from the carpets pattern.

we have spent so long together. i try trick quick glances, i try staring, both are blind to appraisal. i have yet to relinquish all the things you are not.

take account of the rage, suffer not alone but held. your place at the table fills the circle.

a colour always moving under eyelids in restless sleep. carrying a message about time, and the loneliness garnered in its passage.

there is a violet fringe to the dark, a colour pulled from the spilling of ink. nothing to measure but the birth of a star.