since then

I've started riding again. my wrists are feeling stronger and I can use the brakes without any strain in my thumbs. it's good to be back on the road. not having to check the trams is wonderful and I hadn't realised how much I'd missed the wind in my face. this morning I charged down Sydney Road, Phoebe screaming what I can't right through my ears to hold my bleeding heart. it felt like flying. unsurprisingly the music is my medicine and fuel. Mitski and Sufjan et al. I skip man of the year, knowing he's not ready yet but may be soon.

the show went well. I wasn't enjoying it so much until we moved into the theatre last week. once we were in the rhythm and more familiar with each other we started to loosen and relax a little more. the other players were lovely. between long hours and the claws of our directors we managed to laugh a lot. my costumes were silly. the gravedigger wore dark denim overalls and boots. I think you would have liked him. the stage was a square, with audience skirting the show in each direction. I didn't invite anyone, though a few friends came along with flowers. I still hoped I'd hear you laughing in the dark one night.

do you know what you'll be for Halloween? I'd love to see your costume. I'm slowly finding armour for mine (my friend is lending me their chain mail). I want to be my favourite saint, the one they sold off as a witch and burnt alive for saying what she meant. when we still were I'd hoped we might end up dressing up together, like we had for the spaceship party. we turned the mirror in my room and painted faces on the floor. I wore your purple stars because you said they looked better on me. we danced with my friends and you kissed me in the pantry and the playground. we rode our bikes and sang and glowed together in the dark. 

at night I drink tea and listen to the static / what I remember / songs we played and breathed together. I wonder what you're doing / how you're feeling / where you are. I wonder if you read the letter / think of me. I wash my face and brush my teeth and I still think of you.

midday showers

a curse that haunts still in the growing distance between when we were and now. your scent down the hall in the library (third floor). a punch through the hollow of my heart. a rush of blood all wrong. heavy eyelids threaten midday showers. I take a turn to hide behind a bookshelf / reapply my mask. you weren't there.

here and beautiful

what happens now my fears are manifest? the sky fell and I am still here: digging graves and folding on the floor. the moon laughs through my bedroom windows. I am still here, limbs coiled up on my side of a bed in which we shared ourselves. you held me and we gave each other everything. you were here and we were beautiful. I am still here in the dark.

passenger seat witness

before another day I dream. driven by a former friend I am passenger seat witness to one crash after another. I wake into the dark and quiet of my room, mouth dry and sweating through one side of the bed. not so long ago you would have asked how I’d slept and if I’d dreamt. I did but you don’t and so dreams pass as clouds: aimless, unremarkable, washed away with soap and yesterday’s growth into the sink. I miss hearing yours. I still miss you all the time.

flowers

another round of play pretend to ward off foul reflections. an unexpected friend brings flowers in a paper bag. for lack of a vase I use the glass you drank from, still sitting on the desk from right before you left. I haven't had the heart to move it. what proof I have of you wanes further with the passing days and dreams. I don't want to wash it clean. at least it serves a purpose now.

nettles in the river

making face in dressing room mirror. I wear blue stockings under green pantaloons and a jester's hat with bells. a fool for a play within another play. onstage I only skirt the story, garnish used as needed to make a greater case for others. from the wings I listen to the disgraced prince break his lover's heart. she will take this wound as sentence to a death too soon, lying with the daisies and the nettles in the river. a little like the song you love. soon after I will bring a spade to dig her grave as someone else. this someone else will sing and laugh, knowing death is just a door we bide our lifetime queueing for. I wonder if he'd make you laugh. I remember when you said you'd love to help me learn his lines.

eye gazing

mystic in the kitchen home from women's circle 10:50pm. I have just moisturised my face. kettle boiling she talks about eye gazing how it shook and changed her spirit. tonight she fell into the eyes of strangers one after the other five minutes at a time. each pair held a universe she might have never known. the eyes are windows / rivers / passages to what and who and how we are. in those of another we have nowhere to hide. to share gaze is to surrender / be seen / let another hold your heart.

last time I opened was for you. in the last rays of September on my bed you asked how I was feeling, having just made your decision. without the words to answer we were held by silence, willing you to stay a little longer. your eyes sky blue clouded with apology, mine unguarded like a wound or candle. I remember opening for you too soon, glowing in your room to see that you had done the same. lightning through our skulls straight to the heart. whatever this was you felt it too. at the end we used words to be clean. "I understand" and "this is what I need". we used words to make some sense. we did our best but we know better. our eyes can't help divulging how much more this really means.