January light.

There’s a point between what was said
and what was imagined;
a point between reality
and fiction;
a place in which we’ve never met.
A place to hide.


It’s a haven of ambiguity,
of letters that curl to the edge of the page;
spelling things which may have happened,

it doesn't matter either way;

it still looks the same.


It’s always about how you read it;
how you decipher the semiotics.

They're only
words on a page,
a torn page.


And nothing quite lined up the way it was written to;
grey.

Everything was inextricably blurred;

blue.


I kept talking to you after you hung up the phone,
What will I do when the rain comes?
The rain is coming.
I can smell it.

Point to it.

and find within these lines,

the smell of

a hideous sentence,
these fingers refuse to write.
But it’s here hiding.
Hiding between these lines.

ally.

i wrote this when i was listening to

'Knives Out' - Radiohead.

now i can't get that song out of my head.

[also. everytime someone says the date -

January blahblah

i keep thinking of these three lines from a poem on my wall.

it's a Pablo Neruda;

"Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm."