I can only scribble

pain subsides and I can feed myself again. the second night passes a lot quicker, thanks largely to the lack of lights and beeping from machines I can't locate or understand. I don't remember any dreams, but in the morning I manage to shower. behind the curtain I move my hands gently, guiding soap where I can without hurting, washing off the thirty something hours of playing patient. already I can manage much more than before. time is kind and heals sometimes.

they take my bloods and signature before letting me leave. I can only scribble and this makes me laugh because whatever I write doesn't matter. a friend retrieves me from my room, carrying my things down the hall into the day. the fresh air is cold and sharp against my neck. I breathe back into the world outside - the world I know - not knowing what comes next.

at home we strip the bed and clean my sheets. the hum of the laundry underscores a symphony of birds and distant traffic. I sit and read through hours of little consequence. your necklace rests beside my pillow. I miss you like it matters but don't want to weigh you down with words. you find out about the fall on your train home.

readings of my bones

the fall is enough to make me reassess and wonder if I waste my worry on the wrong things. sharp pain asks me to stay where I am: motionless and floating in a haze of analgesics for a day. at midnight they take readings of my bones with the machine, looking through the skin on a screen to figure out what's broken. something near my elbow on both sides. the doctor sits across the bed and tells me there'll be no use going home until I can move myself again. I agree, not wanting to ask someone else to help me bathe or dress or eat. rest and time to heal etc.

the night washes over in glimpses of dark between the beeps and flashes of monitors and vitals measurements. footsteps and whispers down corridors that never sleep. I try to scratch an itch on my cheek. when I wake I wonder what you're doing and if I'll be able to hold you again.

painting with petrichor

the street light flashes on at 6:13pm. from the bus stop I am watching traffic passing under skies tired from crying. a woman sings with one hand on her heart, the other steering off into the right lane. the rattle of the pedestrian button underscores the humming of engines and her rubber tires sliding on freshly watered asphalt. I relish the remains of the clouds, drifting over powerlines away from us into the gold.

petrichor paints the puddles a little softer. pigeons bask in the glow of the taco truck, pecking at their own reflections. I think about your necklace sitting in the shell by my bed. I open the locket to my own reflection. if only I could hold yours just as close in my hands. we choose costumes for birthdays in different states. I bet you look amazing. please take a photo for me.

white noise and a wedding

and I am the boy on the train fixing his hair in the mirror. I stand safe and secure, warm in my coat of white noise, eyes open only when I want to see. I wear my mood on my ring finger, and I am married to the feelings I conceal on command. my alarm is the same every morning: sirens screeching ballads from the bedside of old ghosts I used to know. clawing my hands through the stream of my subconscious into ink through hair under water in the morning showers. I fuel the engine over headlines, a hopeless afterthought of an attempt to jumpstart that part of my heart. the orange man throws his words and bombs around. we watch when we want to between the boulder and the mirror.

I think about the child that didn’t know. he still worried before the sky first fell through the ceiling of the bus. how many times would he use the toilet before bed? remember when he’d calm the anger of the fates using the magic number on the light switch. the fear takes different shapes now, subsisting even still in big boy clothes. he’d like to know a little better, being older and a little longer now. between flashing green lights and another spring’s arrival nothing much has changed. any morning can still spring the first day of the end of the world.

train dreams

you call to tell me you're waiting at the front door. I've been cooking and cleaning and trying not to think too much. on the porch you greet me with a haircut, the difference I can't quite appreciate as much as the hug in the dark. the candles in the kitchen fill the gaps. it's nice to see you smile again.

in my room we play your music and laugh into the way we were again. I release my relief into your embrace. the rhythm returns and maybe we both remember why we started to begin with. I didn't think I'd see you again. you say you didn't want to leave things vacant. I missed you and you missed me too. and so we are where we are, willing each other a little closer with questions and answers and the warmth that comes with holding onto something. our towels hang side by side on the rail above the blinds.

we both have train dreams, like the title of the movie that last made a stranger cry. on his way out of the house he told me I had to watch the film, that it felt like watching poetry. I dream of losing you on trains / in transit, finding you on the platform making the conductors laugh. they are sad to see you go when we board the right train to wherever we are going. track works shoot us all over the city. in the afternoon sun we're nearly caught coming undone through the windows. at the end of the line I spy post with our names through the door before waking up. you dream of the long journey home on a train that never seems to end.

in the morning you stretch on the floor, telling me about your dream and plans for your adventure. before greeting the day you sing me a song about sending your heart to the moon. you kneel with my guitar and I am frozen on my pillow. hope lines the day with the sound of your voice. I look at you in the dark / when we glow / on the floor with your song and my guitar. I think that when you leave I will write something beautiful about this. 

primavera

winter's ending spawns another spring and we wake to face September again. blossoms start to bleed a little earlier here in anticipation. I pass them on the ride to school wishing they would slow down / be a little more patient. they are beautiful but fleeting and I want them to last. back home our weeping tree stirs to life for less than a week, blossoming a soft pink that rains onto the unkempt flowerbed at its feet. my parents know I think of it and send a photo every year. I wish that time would fertilise a little slower.

dining outside at the laksa house on Lygon. the breeze is soft and mild. waiting for my friend's return from the bathroom I listen to a stranger lecturing a captive first date audience on climate change. I learn that winter will soon be a thing of the past. collectively we can't keep up with the planet or our own destruction. 'we'll be okay ... but winter is gone.' in my bowl I carve my spoon through the dregs of the soup.

learning how to swim apart

so we beat on

carved in fire

in water

in anything but stone

pixelated feelings blurred or clear as your voice in the dark

fluorescent or a little less wild 

however you like

the dog from the song waiting with the bird

under the moon

wanting only to be wanted

sitting in your car

you read the new commandments from the mountain in a voice that isn't yours

I say amen

biting my tongue on a prayer willing you home

using other words

a little different from the start

closing windows

as you wish

dimming colours as needed

being what I am

for now:

translucent shell of dreams

head and heart

learning how to swim apart.