Grey Areas

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Abstract

ee spilled beside the bed and trickled up the stairs. In all the sweat from running for the train: it needed bleaching out — that yellow, armpit stain. In mud walked in, trodden in haste to get a Goodnight Kiss. (When sleep-deprived, motives for crimes like this are often missed.)I kept on looking for that brilliant display: dazzling, blinding, irrefutable, accompanied by cherubs playing trumpets as an angel sings,instead of noticing the edges and the corners where he tucked love, quietly and oh-so-neatly, on days when we did that ‘ships in the night’ thing.His strokes were

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dark and ordered; heavy beats reverberated in his chest. I scumbled off and found myself unsure where home was when I floated down to rest.The water muddied: while I swirled about he detailed in the shade. The ink was fading and our colours bled so slowly, growing dim. It seemed much simpler just to separate them out; a pot for me, another pot for him.We tidied up as best we could; wiping tear splatters, washing brushes, hiding pictures painted yesterday.But now the paper’s dry I think I can make out

so indistinct it makes my eyes sting - there was beauty in the grey.</article></body>

A poem

“Love lives in the grey areas” he said, shaking his salt and pepper head. Of course he’s right, and it was there;

in coffee spilled beside the bed and trickled up the stairs. In all the sweat from running for the train: it needed bleaching out — that yellow, armpit stain. In mud walked in, trodden in haste to get a Goodnight Kiss. (When sleep-deprived, motives for crimes like this are often missed.)

I kept on looking for that brilliant display: dazzling, blinding, irrefutable, accompanied by cherubs playing trumpets as an angel sings,

instead of noticing the edges and the corners where he tucked love, quietly and oh-so-neatly, on days when we did that ‘ships in the night’ thing.

His strokes were dark and ordered; heavy beats reverberated in his chest. I scumbled off and found myself unsure where home was when I floated down to rest.

The water muddied: while I swirled about he detailed in the shade. The ink was fading and our colours bled so slowly, growing dim. It seemed much simpler just to separate them out; a pot for me, another pot for him.

We tidied up as best we could; wiping tear splatters, washing brushes, hiding pictures painted yesterday.

But now the paper’s dry I think I can make out - so indistinct it makes my eyes sting - there was beauty in the grey.