Pictures Drawn by Shadows of Phantoms of the Night Before

I'm surrounded by the girl I slept beside last night.
Her hot breath on my face.
Her light hand on my chest.
And our legs tangled like spaghetti.
Which is to say, I was not uncomfortable.

And this morning, when her lazy lids opened, the weak sun was sucked into her dark eyes.
Brown, like rich seas of melted chocolate.
Deep, like prehistoric tar-pits jealously holding the bones of lost behemoths.  
And black, like her heavy frame of hair.
Look, these eyes were dark okay? No two ways about it.

But now I'm down in the kitchen, hard at work, and the strangest thing...
She's all around me still.
The drab words on tins of food are now in her handwriting.
The songs on the radio are all sung by her.
It seems miraculous, that this whole fucking trashy world has been transformed into the girl.
Try to see it; not like, but exactly the same.
The pitch black interior of the oven is woven from her inky hair.
The harsh white tiles on the walls are her perfect teeth.
And these freshly baked rolls were made from the pale skin of her arms, the dark skin of her face.

I mean, beauty subverting the mundane, every line of every shape familiar and nothing but the best.

Except the blues and greens, this girl doesn't do blue or green you see.
Nope, they don't remind me of her, but of her absence.
The ripped empty space she leaves behind.
Which starts off small but grows every day till it fills every room.
Like a bear-cub kept in a council house, y'understand?

Okay, so the feeling fades and world creeps back over her facade.
And the buzz and whine of customers and workmates begins to wear at me.
The sun goes down and the shadows look nothing like hair.

But I can't help smiling at the idiots crawling all over me, because I know...
I'll see her again tonight.



(c) Written by Spider - November 1999