Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
From: Bryherl@aol.com (Dan Mcafee)
Subject: Poems from Mulder
Date: Thu, 6 Jul 1995 15:01:45 GMT


Disclaimer: The X-Files, and the characters of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, 
and all rights thereto, are the property of FOX Broadcasting Network and
Chris Carter.  The remainder of this story is the property of the author.
All comments are welcome.
 

	Scully sometimes thought that the varying amounts of clutter
different people could live with would make a good psychological study.
Mulder lived in a one bedroom apartment in a complex two miles south
of hers.  She had agreed to feed his fish when he was called out of
town, but she hadn't realized how often the bureau flew him to other
cities as a psychological consult on violent crimes.  Generally, she
would just ignore his TV room, feed the fish, and leave.  Except for
the TV room where (judging by the clues of crumbs, clothes, stacks of 
books, CD's, video tapes and mail) he seemed to do most of his living,
his apartment was almost pristine.  But this time, perhaps because she
knew how tired Mulder was when he left for California, she decided to
try to put some order to his chaos.  

	The room looked like a gravity well, with everything moved
toward the center of the room.  She pushed his couch and TV back 
against opposite walls so she could gain access to his coffee table
which was completely covered with a random collection of his "stuff."
She stacked all his video tapes in two piles against the wall next
to his TV, and all his CD's against the wall next to his stereo.  
She piled all his magazines up underneath his end table and found
places for all his books on the large bookshelves along the East wall.
She rounded up all his mail into a pile and left it on the coffee
table.  She folded the two dark blue sheets that were partly on the
sofa and partly on the floor and placed them on the end of his couch.
She put his pillow on top of the folded sheets.

	The rest appeared to be food wrappers, crumbs, dishes, and
notes.  She brought in Mulder's dirt devil and a garbage bag and
began sorting through the mess.  To her surprise, Scully found scraps
of wadded up poetry in Mulder's scrawled handwriting amid the garbage:

		I trace
		my love for you:
		transparent words on glass;
		and no one knows my heart but me...
		and you
		have somehow guessed
		just where to hush your breath
		upon the pane to bring my words
		to life.


	Scully read the poem several times and finally tucked it into
her wallet.  She found another, and although sections had been
erased and rewritten several times and many words were crossed out
and replacements written in above, she could still read:

		I see you draw one finger underneath
		your eye to brush away a flash of light.
		You press and pull across the darker skin,
		removing, for a second, tiny lines.

		Your middle finger is the one pressed down,
		the others, slightly raised, just barely graze
		the skin above your lips and enter wisps
		of hair that have escaped across your face.

		And then your slender fingers curl away
		to stroke along the collar of your dress.
		I know these breezy touches of your hand
		and look for signs of fire on your flesh.

		I flush beneath your smile when I see
		that you've been watching me examine you.
		Standing close, you press your hand to mine,
		and then your slender fingers curl away.


	She tucked this away in her wallet, too, and then continued
to sweep crumbs, move dishes to the kitchen sink, through away junk
food wrappers and scraps of torn paper.  She found another poem, 
again apparently worked over several times:

		Imagine every thought as candlelight
		and dreams as taking on a human form,
		my arms would steal about you every night,
		your room would be a blazing fire-storm.

		Can you imagine how your heart would race
		when disembodied lips began, in warm
		surrounding circles, to caress each place
		upon your body I've so longed to know?

		Can you imagine how the ghostly trace
		of fingertips across your skin would slow
		and slip inside the fountains of your sighs
		before you even show them where to go?

		   Imagine, mirrored candles fill your eyes.
		   Imagine, countless flames around us rise.


	Scully didn't take this one, and she took the others out of
her wallet, wadded them back up, and threw them back on the floor
and coffee table where she'd found them.  She fed the fish and left
his apartment, the slender fingers of her hand curling away from
the doorknob as she left.

		- Dan, just for fun