#alicel

My house is humble and my sunroom bright

I hear the seagulls and a sailors goodbye

I get my groceries on Sundays and I visit the bookstore once a week

the town feels like London in the morning and like Paris at night

I think you would really like it

It smells of salt and daisies and when I get lonely I buy myself flowers

I put them in a bright blue vase on my dining table

They go so well with my little statues made of clay

I really think you would like them

I started a pottery course the other day

I always dreamed of doing it

I eat my dinner way too late these days

But I do like spaghetti now

And when I can’t sleep at night

I pour out my words on paper

Until the pages stay empty

The city was just starting to awaken, summoned to life by the slow crawl of the sun over the horizon, light seeping in around the childish blocks of buildings with the inevitable steady progress of time. It spilled in through the open window, curtains fluttering on the breeze that brought with it the sounds of the streets below, of supply trucks backing up to the greengrocers down the street and the song of the starlings rattling away in their nests in the eaves.

In the morning, their little corner of the world almost seemed like it was worth saving.

They called it the golden hour, an indefinable stretch of time in which everything seemed that much softer, that much more beautiful. It was finger tips of sunlight, crawling into the darkness of his room, stretching out across the valleys of bare skin and the curve of her ribs (scars gleaming like pearls, because somehow the sun could render even the horrific into something beautiful), glowing across raven hair and turning her tired face (averted from the call of the light) soft. Even the deep bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes seemed less, chased away by the glow of sweat and sex and the momentary hope that accompanied another dawn. His thumb grazed the warm stretch of sun-soaked skin on her arm, tracing the shadows and light that rippled across her skin with every flutter of the curtain.

when the fire dies darkened skies hot ash, dead match only smoke is left