The room; before
Your knuckles are white and fierce.
Like aggregate pushing
Against the tarmac of your skin.
Your body is a wet road.
Your little hands, the arches of your feet,
The inward curve above your lip
Sweat like rain.
Your face is paper; eyes white as eggs.
I hold your head in my lap;
Wet neck stuck to my thigh.
Ice flowers spread across the window.
In the blueness your neck is damp.
Evening slips into morning;
Slips into night.
The morning will hold
I will leave you
Words fall like pebbles
From my lips.
Onto your heart.
(c) Alicia Buller 2001
Is a 23 yr old copywriter living in Chiswick, West London,
"I've been writing poetry since I was twelve years old... I'm hoping that it's come on a bit since! I'm currently writing a book of short stories."