there

Underneath,
around the side,
out of view, normally.
I see it,
sense it…
the warmth is dizzying,
the light blinding.
It’s hard
to put your finger
upon it.
The walls,
moods
and everyday noises
hide
its… perfectness.
But when
the obscuring breaks,
temporarily,
and the hurt
forgets itself
for a moment.
There is a MOUNTAIN
sized part of your soul
which I wonder at
and fall
desperately in love with
over and over, again.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.