thank you

plans change without warning: you can’t stay for dinner or be here anymore. once more I feel pathetic having already bought ingredients. I am sitting on my bed and you are stretching on my floor. you did this the last time you were here. we'd woken up together for the last time. you were wearing my pyjamas and reached for my guitar to sing a song. my love is mine, all mine. the night before you'd called me yours. we were glowing and I told you that I loved this, that I loved being yours. I saw your heart in your eyes. you could have pulled mine from my chest and seen that they were beating for each other. you told me you had missed me. it had only been five days.

when you start to break this I ask if you could sit with me on the bed. I remember you saying how safe you felt here. afternoon sun is pouring through the windows over carpet over you. you let me catch your eyes and I wish you weren't so beautiful. 'I think we should stop...' of course. I ask when you knew that this was what you wanted. not long, maybe a couple of days. you say that it's not about me, or about us. you want to focus on other things. this has been lovely. we've had fun. but it's not what you need. a little too real or a little too much? you say the former though your choice implies the latter.

you ask me how I'm feeling. without knowing what to say we sit in silence and I do my best to smile. there's an offer to leave. I ask you to stay a little longer, knowing your departure means the end of our little misadventure. on my pillow I make you listen to the list of things I like about you and the way we were: your laugh, your scent, the way you made my people laugh, your singing voice, the dinners and the dancing and the other stuff I could almost swear felt sacred. remember when you asked me to never close to you. when we wrote each other poetry. when you danced for me. I love the way you would tell me your dreams and ask about mine. I love the characters we'd play together and apart. the secrets you shared and how you'd hold me when I'd let you see what I thought was ugly. the way you’d make me feel like I was something more than bones and dreams. your touch in the dark. the sound of my name on your tongue. you join in and tell me what you like and what you'll miss but I don’t want to hear it. how can this mean anything when you make the choice to close the door?

there are brief formalities: I return your locket in exchange for my tupperware. a transaction to wash away the people we've been. the little crocodile still hangs from your work bag, bought for you before we'd even met. you offer to give back the book but I plead you to keep it. and there is no way to switch off the care I feel for you. when you leave I will cry because we mattered, and you still do, and there is nothing you or I can do to change this. how many pools will I fill with these feelings when you're gone?

I tell you that I’ll miss you. you say you’ll miss me too. the last I see of you is in your helmet. the first time you saw me I was wearing mine. patterns in repeat. we hug until you let go and I thank you for your time.

the dog and the bird

sitting on the grass in the shadow of the dome I spy a bird over the shoulder of my friend. the bird is tired and beautiful; limping down the pavement, colourful plumage like the parrots from the tropics. the bird is out of place amidst the lime bikes and pigeons by the pond. the bird is trying to fly but can hardly leave the ground. a well-groomed white dog barks from a leash preventing a chase in the direction of the bird. an owner holds the line in one hand and a coffee in the other, focus stolen by another conversation. holding on tight enough he keeps the dog in order out of reflex rather than concern. he doesn't see the bird trying to fly away with broken wings.

my friend and I drink chai from cups we can't recycle, exchanging dreams and nightmares spun from time we've spent apart. with enough distance we can look at where we've been and laugh. she shows me her new tattoo (freshly inked this morning): two doves flying up her calf. the drawing is beautiful and I forget to ask if it hurts. 

in a summer dress

in my dream I'm passing through my hometown in a summer dress. I've not done this before and would I want to would know better than to do so on the island. with fewer people fewer hearts and eyes are open to the world beyond and other ways of doing things. but I don't know better in my dream.

the dress is bright and billows in the wind as I brave the gauntlet through the city. toyed with serendipity almost every passing stranger wears a face I know. those that aren't closed minds that built my closet are ghosts that loved me til they didn't. despite the recognition in their eyes no words are spoken. some sneer or shake their heads. others look away. no one stops to say hello.

in the morning I am tired and my wing stings more than yesterday. with the blinds down the room is dark and I could maybe sleep forever. my questions sit in tidy piles beside our rings. I miss your voice and don't know anything.

more together

breathing in and out of clarity each day. whatever sense I draw from misadventure only buys me dreams in which I lose myself again. when I wake I'm just as far from knowing as I was in sleep. funny to keep brushing teeth and trying. tomorrow I'll be just as lost / in need of validation / toothpaste. 

in the hall I harbour questions like weapons concealed from answers I'm afraid of. the trigger tempts and scares me, like your name / the memory of the way mine sounds on your tongue. not knowing if I want to know. too timid to move either way. even in your absence just the thought of this is fragile.

but maybe it's much smaller. and maybe it's not so dire. I can take your word for now and try to trust the way I want to. there's a world beyond the feelings we can't see. I hope we see some more together.

asteroid in passing

your words take time to find me. not wanting to be waiting I spy the moon and plant my feet into the current moment. accepting where I am I choose to pass the time with pleasant strangers in the space between. in the gaps I orbit conversations, only dipping toes, not a planet or a sun but just an asteroid in passing. there is always somewhere else to be. some nights it's nicer just to linger in the wings.

a stranger tells me we're only one night from a full moon. when I ask him what that means he doesn't have an answer. we laugh about our medication and the lack of sense we make. we both share an astigmatism. it's nice to think of something else for now.

claws

the sun is always shining somewhere. even in then city we can see Venus through the smog / second-hand light at night. for lack of a mountain / better landmark I look to the cranes sprouting from the world between our bedrooms. they watched us glowing in the park the night we didn't want to sleep. I watch them glowing purple through the window on the tram ride home.

somewhere else you're on your way to dance with friends and swim with fish tomorrow. allowing half a breath of hope I think we're both a little lighter now. you listen to a song I sang. playful / careless / drunkish / bliss. you tell me and it makes me smile.

trees and power lines

window shopping at night

not quite ready for the bolt cutters

'if only they were open...'

trees choked in power lines

words or weapons hide a pulse

all care concealed

on another starless night

haunting your supermarket at the end of the world

not so near

not so far

caught on camera

moving pixels

a can kicked down the road

abandoned daydream you might have wanted once

or just confused

screaming in blue light

awaiting sentence

wishing he could know you

see your face

and spend another breath together

held in your heart again.

John the revelator

at the party playing bible dress ups I am drinking from another paper cup. I meet friends of my friends and listen to their stories. wrapped in bedsheets as a stranger I play present in dim lighting: a gospel writer asking questions, showing interest, pretending he is really there. I meet the heartache of the writer, knowing more than I should, trying to see what he sees without giving it away. we laugh about movies and types we won't agree on. he fauns and I'd find it beautiful if not for seeing too much of myself.

you couldn't come because of other plans, though you tell me you've always wanted to wear a toga. your other plans play out without you. I think of you: sick at home, harbouring something I'd kill to take and bear myself instead, keeping quiet, much less tender than before. I take a photo in the mirror just in case you want to see me. the sheet is soft against my skin and would look beautiful on you. but you're not here and won't make sense. I take a knee and pray for mercy. I am the author of the end of days.

breathe

half broken I can stand and move using the limbs that still work. take the tram and another day for granted. worship the wrong gods. waste another wish on what once made much more sense. wait and wait and wait for nothing. let the silence affirm whatever prophecy you've taken from the mirror. write what you need to out of memory of the dregs of what was good. let it breathe.

I try to talk to you again. you forget who I was.

dinner for breakfast

in my dream I drive myself to hospital. in the moment it makes sense and this is where I'm meant to be. the ladies at reception smile and say it's good to see me, checking in like a hotel for getting better. the nurses still know my name and though they're warm as I remember I can sense their shock at my return. they weren't expecting me and I quickly start to wonder if I'm meant to be there.

through the doors I see the ward has changed. the hall is darker now: high ceilings lowered, windows smaller than before. the noise that underscored our every meal is lesser too. what was once a battlefield of broken minds and argument reads more now as a library. a solemn cloud of silence washes over empty couches, chairs, tables and abandoned games of cards and chess. tortured ghosts and soldiers limp around the furniture, eyes fixed ahead in medicated daze. the space feels strange without the shouting, the speaker-phone calls, the worship music spilling from the rage room. all I hear is quiet muttering and the gentle scrape of sneakers on the vinyl.

a new nurse shows me to a room without a bed. she tells me I'm welcome but the psych doesn't have time to see me. I try but have no luck remembering why I've returned. no time passes and a bell rings, calling me to breakfast. passing through the dining hall the nurse leads me to a smaller, darker room, lit only by tall candles and light recycled from the passageway passing through the door. the table is longer than before, with more seats and more consumers.

I take my place between a friend from last time and a child who can't stop shaking at the site of toast. my friend places a hand on her shoulder as she starts to cry. I ask if she'd prefer corn flakes. she nods, looking up towards a nurse who shakes her head and says we're out of cereal. the stop clock watches from the head of the table. looking down at my plate I laugh at my meal. I've been served dinner for breakfast.

pretending to sleep

I carry the distance between us like an anchor on my shoulders. traversing streets we've crossed together I commit to being outside of my head with other people, making my way to the park. friends share food and drinks and cigarettes. some ask about my arms. some ask about you. there is laughter and tangible joy in different shades and sounds. a chance to forget myself for a while.

but even here I can't forget you. worry persists like a black hole in my stomach, leaving me far from fit for care and conversation. and so, on someone's pillows on the grass, I rest my head and close my eyes. the afternoon sun sulks as I pretend to sleep, cradling myself in broken wings. in the dark I listen to and distract myself with other people without being there at all. I let their conversations fight for my attention, two tides stretching me out of too familiar shores of my self doubt and loathing. they talk about their dreams and medication and my furrowed brows. somebody kisses my forehead goodbye.

when I choose to wake the sky has changed. I can see half of the moon under the clouds. the sun is being swallowed by the pretty terrace houses. a beautiful goodbye before the night. even while you let the space between extend I hope you get to see it too.

fingertips

I want to move

I want to run like water

but you linger

the memory of a feeling

hope or dread

a shadow on the wall cast by your absence

you sleep

I wait

and my heart is at the mercy of your fingertips.

under the veneer

there's no hiding when the doctor takes my weights. I can choose to turn my back and carry on oblivious. this doesn't change the facts of who I am and where I'm at.

there's no hiding when the needle takes my blood. the pathologist is friendly and I can entertain her questions about the weather and my lunch. she clocks off in twenty minutes and can't wait to get home for hers. the charade is harmless and holds no sway on whatever the machine will say.

there's no hiding when the sky falls. what time is there for inhibitions when the world is ending? I keep up my appearances through gritted teeth. they start to slip in the dark. are you hanging onto yours? I've been hiding for a while. it feels much safer in my armour. but there's no changing who and how I am under the veneer.

there is a bird at your window. he can't help that he cares.

vessel

and with a breath

earth opens

the Titanic sinks in my stomach

I become a black hole

and nothing else

taking and taking

patterns in repeat into tomorrow

I will cry and dry my eyes again

and when I sleep I leave a body vacant for the night

I am a vessel for the things that happen and the ways they make me feel

they enjoy the shade of being hidden

and escape

I am left to take up space

exposed

unconcealed

with every layer lost

pulsating heart and other vital organs hanging on the walls

in glass cases and your afterthoughts 

words are not enough

come see and believe

and so the old ghosts haunt the gallery to laugh and stare and take their photos

‘do you remember when…’

knowing the display

a joke awaiting punchlines like a sentence still withheld

what you wanted (blood on canvas)

assorted hopes and tricks that used to work

deconstructed for what?

echoes of affection

I remember

when what we said was what we meant

and you use words like strings to pull me with or without knowing

does it matter if you mean it if it works?

ask me anything

my dietitian asks me to think about my bones. he approaches every problem with a willingness to laugh I find refreshing. the scans remind me I am weaker than I should be. there are things I can be doing to rebuild and restore, I just need his help to make a plan.

my friends ask me to think about my boundaries. they listen to my woes and ask me how I'm feeling. my inability to answer only warrants more questions. their faith in my worth endures another day of ego death. I thank whichever of my past selves did the work to earn this love.

my phone asks me to care. I read the headlines to find my pulse. it feels perverted and I do little with the feelings. there is another world in which I do more. I wish I had coordinates.

my heart asks me to listen. I can't close my eyes without seeing the glow of your name etched somewhere in the dark. you're excited to see me tomorrow. I'm very happy you're home.

how to talk

a cigarette and a pacifier on the tiles of the public bathroom floor

my brother tries to teach me how to talk about my feelings

I am silenced by the labour of my own imagination.

it is easier to listen and watch than to act and speak, though I can only bite this tongue so much. if I care and I do then I owe a little more. you don't live in this skull. you haven't seen the writing on the ceiling. would you come in and take a look?

only flames

on the eve of her birthday the mystic holds a picnic by the creek. friends and followers lounge on blankets in a circle round the food. the air is warm for this time of year and afternoon, but gentle under overcast skies promising a storm. I arrive a little late for liking with guacamole and a mask. having spent the morning in my head it's good to try to be outside.

tomorrow's birthday girl dictates a ritual for her congregation, willing us to scribe our secrets onto paper: something to let go of, something to hold onto, something to bring to life. I sit on the trunk of a fallen tree and write what sense I can draw from the well:

hiding what and how I feel (for fear)

the ears / hearts that listen / ask me to believe that I am not too much

the belief that I have no reason to be scared.

being a fire sign, the mystic instructs me to burn my paper. I exchange my secrets with a stranger. we share a lighter, holding on until our words are only flames. the earth signs bury theirs in the ground.

the storm never comes. I wash dishes in the sink and tell myself that nothing's wrong. I wash my face and brush my teeth and listen to your favourite song.

the toy you want

your name on my lips at a party full of strangers at the end of someone else's tram line. big houses with trimmed lawns. neighbourhoods that would feel just as alien in the sun. I play the shadow of a writer friend who knows the birthday girl, wearing silver to fade into the theme. he offers me wine in a paper cup and asks about you. wishing my answers were different / taking shape in brighter colours, my confession leaves me feeling even smaller. he knows how I feel and we can laugh about our bleeding hearts. we watch another of our friends unknowingly woo the affections of two boys by the pingpong table. their smiles obscure their rivalry. she laughs in blissful ignorance.

crawling through the witching hour I wash my face and fall into my pillow. I think about the gaps and beg my bedroom ceiling for an explanation. are you too kind to tell me what's changed? I cry because I'm tired of guessing and pretending not to care. I cry because we've stopped saying things we used to. I cry because I've let you see me and you've let me see you too. holding myself I play the supercut: your eyes under the lids of my own, in the dark, ghosts I've known and want to keep at least a little longer. I cry because you run like water, like the tears and days since hearing your voice.

the sun shines in the morning. I do my laundry and try not to think of you and whatever star you're chasing today. I miss you like you used to say you missed me. and I want to be the toy you want to play with again. how much does that make you want me less?

you and I / am and are

if I am to be

and as I am (it seems)

how am I to help but want

between being and my dreams?

if you are for now

and as you are (with me)

why should we be scared to glow?

I miss your colours

they keep changing

what don’t you want to be?

other things

following the sun I walk along the stream, taking what I can from what remains of the day. lost boys serenade me through golden hour through my phone. the waves are warm and gentle on my face. the melodies are melancholic and familiar in a way that forges momentary comfort.

the river leads me to a lake I used to run around. by the water fountain stands the playground I could swear keeps moving inches, the one we climbed to glow in on the night we didn't want to sleep. I watch the sun kiss the window of our tower on its way into tomorrow. the boys sing about writing the worst love song in the world like a spell or anti-curse. I think about the poetry and what I dim in fear of being too much.

you leave me guessing in the gaps. I care too much to not play along for now, though I wish we could see each other a little better like before. it doesn't have to be as heavy in my head. it isn't when you're here. ibis hang from trees like plastic bags over the creek. if I had their wings I swear I'd be doing other things. 

goldfish

I exhaust myself with the privilege to revel as a goldfish in my brain. what I know of the world beyond the windows and my fingertips will always be waiting. the fears and tears I jerk are almost always from my own imaginings. in spite of the headlines I live in the mirror. with my ears closed I only hear myself, deaf to the cries of a world deluged in rivers of blood, a world that once made me scream. I watch the bombs drop on my own time. they fall like rain and scorch the earth regardless.

hope and dread linger in the wings. at this point they have made themselves at home, colonising every other moment. too often I feel like their child. under their influence I think about caring and compromise. in the process of trying to open myself to you I begin to remember that currency is held in keeping caring quiet. this truth challenges the way we've been, how playful and open and willing to see each other as we are. when I think of you I don't want to play the game. when I am with you I don't want to hide.

but what do you want? is it foolish to hope you might want this more than keeping up appearances? is it better to play along the way we're taught? dread urges me to conceal my care, a wound you don't really want to see. but I miss you and mean everything that I've said. I am the statue of a mother holding her son limp in her lap, looking into his eyes. he is the hope and dreaming I know not to resurrect. can I really help wanting to try?

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.