Nebulas

Television frames flicker silver and blue light out into the room and Gilbert watches blindly, mind far away with his eyes set straight ahead. Knees pulled up to his chest and swathes of duvets and blankets limp around his slight frame, his breathing is quiet and the sound on the tv is switched off. Whether he has or hasn't been watching what's showing on the screen is undetermined but one could take a guess by the slack and inattentive look on his face. His silver hair glints in flashing lights and his skin's pallor allows him to reflect the glow, making him a human screen of colour and half formed images.

His black tank top is loose, the soft fabric wrinkled and falling away from his skin. His hazy mind is filled with stars and his eyes with ice and longing, lighting up his sharp, angular face. Everything around him is out of focus as somewhere in his buzzing head he calculates the sleepless hours that have slid by, languid and stale.

He can smell coffee and sweat, bitter and harsh on his drowsy senses and his skin is littered with goose bumps. The boiler has broken again so the radiators are useless, the cold had crept in through unattended crevices and crawled over Gilbert's skin, the feeling slowly seeping out of his fingertips and feet as he tries to stay awake.

Just one more day. One more day of waiting and then he could sleep soundly again. No internet and the phone lines were down, but he could watch old videos on repeat until his eyes were sore and strained. Sinking back into the couch, he twitches two shaking fingers and allows himself to slide into darkness, blotting out the scene on the television with heavy eyelids. He wouldn't fall asleep now, even if he tried. 24 hours and he'd know if his beloved was coming home. It seems like a lifetime away, but he has to hold on hope that it'll pass quickly.

His body unravels until he lies awkwardly on the worn out couch, shoulder pressed uncomfortably against the rough cushion cover and head lolling with no place to rest with ease. His hand reaches out, palm to the ceiling with fingers relaxed, waiting for heat to find its way back in, preferably with the warmth of another. He's patient, staring straight ahead and listening to the ticking clock that sounds in his head. A nebula of colours curl and twist in his skull, blinking stars and faded moonlight all melding into one bland glaze of pale light across the patterns of purples, blues and pinks that float like clouds.

Mumbling incoherently, his eyes slip shut and he focuses on his light breathing. Cold skin, tousled hair, dirty clothes and caffeine. 24 more hours.


Written to the song Sleepyhead by Passion Pit.