Dillon #2

His skin is cold to touch. Colder than The Grey. His teeth are icicles. His tongue is vanilla ice-cream. His favourite colours are white and blue but he pretends they are red and black. When kissing his lips it feels like eating snow. His breath is always foggy. His blood has frozen, so he moves with stiff legs and turns slowly. He gleams with brilliance and cleanliness. He is immaculate and pure and those of wicked and wretched sin, those like me, are hurt to look upon his white statue. The light cuts the black of our eyes like a needle.

Nothing penetrates his glacier exterior. The pools of emotions inside him are never rippled. They are steady and lonely and never overflow and they are a young blue atop and embowled by a flawless white.

He deflects weapons and blocks punches. He is a white barrier. He is physically unbreakable. He doesn’t crack. He glows – a strict, skinny, skeleton glow that radiates from his skin. He is intimate with his surroundings and can surge them with confidence to withstand the wildest of winds and strongest of storms.

When he walks through empty corridors he glides his finger along the wall emitting little flakes from the contact that melt to a tear of water before they reach the ground.

I think he lives like he’s made of glass. Perhaps porcelain. A cold porcelain vase that doesn’t home flowers and acts as just an eye pleaser, a decoration on a marble mantlepiece. And so, he feels cold and worthless and looked at but not looked in, not studied, just passed, his existence fragile and unmendable once it shatters into fragments; picked up with delicate hands and let fall again. And again. And again. 

We could combine, little Dillon. You and I, the frost and the fog could attach and produce a new world. An illusionist and a shapeshifter. Who’s who?

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Galaxy Goo

I could crack you open and galaxy goo would slime through the fissures, thick and dark purple and full of little stars.

You don’t even know that.

You have no idea what’s inside of you. What you’re made of. I guess that’s because you can’t see your eyes. Unless you look through mirror. But you and I both know, mirrors only reflect colours. Cosmic magic gets lost in translation.

I have seen your eyes. The first time I met with them, my lonely mind took their picture and replayed them to me – over and over. It connected us in that infinite land of dream and magic and imagination, where we will breathe and fly and implode even after this world has let us go.

You’re heavy. You carry yourself around and you tire yourself out.

Gravity despises you. You’re too hard to hold down. Gravity told Love to break you, so you chained canon balls around your ankles and kept yourself grounded.

That was bad.

You see, dreaming is flying, flying is rising above,out of reach from Shadow, the snappy-stick wetness that moves at night. We sleep to escape it. That’s why we sleep at night.

But you don’t sleep. Do you?

No. You shiver and stare at the stars and wonder.

Oh. Galaxy Goo! That’s us up there! Far from the ground claimed by malice!

I feared for your safety.

But you were safe.

When I turned and found myself deep within Grey depth and not alone, I found you! Oh, wicked truth! Beyond imagination! You are of Grey as I am, as she is! And I pondered just HOW A being of the Grey could survive the darkness without dreaming! Without sleep!

And so I realised,

At night as we leapt to Earths beloved universe and hid in a galaxy, you turned into your galaxy. The darkness couldn’t collect you because you collected yourself.

And so, you could survive the night. And, the night became your dream. And, you lived amongst devils and demons and were immune to their wickedness.

And then came the Grey…