the room

I wait for some hours at the back of an uncurtained, uncarpeted room.
My memory is such that I don't categorise time as well as most people.
I am aware of it, but it slips through me, without scale sometimes.
Memories are tiny moments, flecks in years that are remembered. So
infact we are not very old at all. I'm in love with these moments. We
are all without size, without time. The moonlight falls into this room,
in strips and squares that open at my feet, like hands with their
fingers outstretched. My eyes and the sky outside the window smooth the
room over in all sorts of blues and silvers and greys. Despite this,
these colours are the room's unique shade. The colours sit, similar to
skin, but instead of pimpled, taut and instead of curved and shaped,
equal and lined and pulled and soft and sprawled. I wait as the
shadow's yawn and stretch over the floor of the room, moving like the
hand of a clock around, growing, creeping to the middle and then
retreating. The moon slowly leading them back, by the hand, to join the
night as it becomes morning