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
A stillness.
I will leave you

Words fall like pebbles
From my lips.
And drop
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."