Where he sleeps, the room is cold.
Icicles grow on the ceiling. Frost colours the window, tainted blue, sheets of cold falling through the panes, shattering on the floor - blue sun. Blue room. There is snow gathered in the dips of his hair, in his cheeks. White dust on silver skin nestled in the crack where his smiles should be.
No breathe in the room - still. The rise and fall of his chest is miniscule. Is it moving at all?
The clock hand watches. Sits in its glass tower, cross-legged.
Take a breath unto his lashes - blow. They don't move. White drapes, peppery drapes, brush over the back of his hands, like ghosts. Baby fingers of dandelion fluff, sawdust off the mill, and morning dewdrop evaporating at the touch of his skin. They bring the blue over his cold hands - warm hands - shadows so soft, baby blue, powdered like the blue sky yawning outside his frost-coloured windows.
Outside, the sky is blue.
Liquid gold stretches on browning fields. Green trees blossom, delightfully pink, and its felicity sings bright and loud in the glow of its blossoms as a rain of petals flutter from their lustrous crowns. They scatter the grass like confetti in a spring wedding, like fine pink sugar on puffy tea cakes, like the ending notes of a waltz on pointed dance shoes and shiny boots, tails of tuxedoes, the graze of satin on red carpet curved in the way that the back of a lady's hand in a river canoe does when she meets water. The melisma of the wind's warbling note bells out over the blue sky outside. Joyous, black robins sing, robust, as the wind rifles through their wings their feathers and re-lights within their lungs a breathe solargesofresh that their red chests flare a starry glow - like a wish dripping into sleep.
Impervious, the cold room sleeps.
In the blindingly blue summer, on white grass and white flowers, somebody sleeps.
