Words in the Morning
Dried rivers of salt are etched upon my face while a weasel looks at me peculiarly. You lie there, asleep, cold shivers crawl their way down my back. Does anyone else understand the words that slip past the gates of my lips? Sometimes I can't help but wonder that even I, their meticulous author, understand the full meaning of them.
So bright, like a candle up close so that you can feel the heat of it singe your eyelashes, like a star in the midnight sky far from the polluting rays of street cars and lamp-posts, like the sun upon a desert's back. And yet... You still don't burn. Whereas the burning daystar's slightest touch singes your skin, my intensity leaves you unscathed.
And still, I perceive in you a cold fire so hot that it deceives the senses. Deceptively, it is blue, able to cut through metal, sometimes convincing others "I am no flame, fire is not the colour of my eyes, but red. You must be mistaken."
In a mirror, a clenched fist, and I realise, suddenly, that it is my own.