The room; before Your knuckles are white and fierce. Like aggregate pushing Against the tarmac of your skin. Dripping; 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 A stillness. I will leave you Trembling. Words fall like pebbles From my lips. And drop Heavy Onto your heart. I'm sorry. (c) Alicia Buller 2001
	Alicia Buller Is a 23 yr old copywriter living in Chiswick, West London,  She says: "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."