The Distance To Me

You've got a bad case of being over there. The only cure is being over here.

The Meaning We Give To Words

And I'm sorry if I haven't written to you in a while. It's just that life gets in the way of living. It's just that my fingers were stuck together. It's just that all the paper in the world caught fire.

You'll forgive me if I haven't written in a while. It's just that all the envelopes made love to dragonflies and now, we cannot bring them down. It's just that time stopped ticking. It's just that all the ink ran clear.

My apologies if I haven't written in a while. It's just that words ran out of letters (these are the last in the bag). It's just that language isn't perfect. It's just, me.

The Shade

You are no longer here. So please leave.

The Flower In The Web

The Sky Painter

There's someone who paints the sky, with their eyes, each day, every way. They're alone now, today, every day, some ways. They had a wife/husband and friends/children but now they're all gone (you lived too long, just one more song).

The red paint arrives in the morning or early evening (suppliers work strange hours).
They always have a surplus of blue, white and grey (massive store room).

So they sit, each day, and try to remember the colours that once made it move.

The Skin I'm In

This is my skin. It keeps out the rain and words I'd rather not hear like "I'm tired" or "I'm fine" or "We need to talk."

This is my skin and it's thick. This is not your skin. Yet you are still under it.

The Burning Of Fields

Look what you've made me do.

I burnt down the world, for you.

The Flight Of Librarians

There's a library, it's true.

It's written by me, and it's all about you.

It's here for one more year.

It's full of love.

It's full of fear.