From the titles of Smallville fics:
A pale sunday comes:
tilted and hard from the mercy of the wind.
There is no quarter,
it leaves no will to bend.
Moonlight: never speak above a whisper.
You are bereft, you sleeper.
You are breathless as you are blind,
still in the whited forge.
Old lies are free -- clever
utterance in the rain.
You, Caliban:
break. Now, arise.
You want only epiphanies,
backlit by afternoons and lemons,
you formal wreck, you true distance.
Deny this context thrice; leave no change.
**
From the titles of due South fics:
Voices howl snow.
This is it: a kingdom of bridesmaids,
of songs, sad and patient. Nothing on the street.
Passers endure, always, and ice slowly waltzes.
You and I are.
Slowly, slowly -- night on the watershed.
**
From titles of one shot fandom fics:
Prelude: wind, sand, spring.
Like time, you have sense.
Like distance, you fit.
Come, love, rising unhidden and prophetic.
Face bender, picture this:
yellow voices, home.
Now, after ragnarok
these patient flies remember you
and nothing less.
**
And from the titles of The Score fics (you know, the 20 fics I wrote for my birthday last year like a maniac?!?!?):
Darlings, say sleep.
Say home.
Say something.
Say a novena, keeper of the grey future.
Gently cast the pretty portrait into the harbor,
in this shadowed time.
Young woman, waiting for the terminal meal;
imperfect, waiting to set asunder
this American word,
this story.
You, bound like a vampire, vow stasis.
Darlings -- say nothing.
**
Seriously, next I'm doing first and last lines. Somebody *stop* me. *grins*
