Stokkseyri

If only there were some way to escape my endless heartache. To cease the dull roaring that fills the cavities in my ears and mouth and stomach, and quiet the waves that build behind my eyes before they are pulled to crashing peak by the moon in my chest.

When I look at the bundle of spiders' eggs that hovers in the sky at night, I am pulled upwards and outwards, until I want to rip the particles of moondust from between my ribs with my own cold fingers. Sometimes I wonder if the stars are not the moth-eaten shroud of heaven, and if one night it will tear in two and fall on us like a third blanket as we sleep. Then I remember that somewhere, it already has, and the daybreak is the dawn of a new world.

If I let that thought carry me through the night, I can sometimes watch as the first purple lines of dawn appear like a tear, and the tattered strips of darkness float down through my window and land on my bed-warm skin. The greyscale invades my blood, and it seems to take all my energy to stop the stars from coming out across my face.

And all day I will wait for the night, when the colour drains away,
and I fall comatose in my own private catacomb, as the racing pulse of my blood will finally find its equal in the gale of the cool night wind.