Almost Paradise

For one moment in time, in a world of billions, two strangers were in the right place, at the right time. Something happened. At one time, they beat the odds. Split them with mountains. With continents of grassland,
 with rivers, with snow, with beaches, with time. 
Split them, with hours and aching,
 with months that hurt. 
Split them, with whispers 
and sorrow, with a wait 
that buries every seed 
of hope. 
Split them, with shadow 
and storm, with tumult 
and the confusion born 
from unheld hands 
and unheard laughter. 
Split them. Then, watch them return,
 watch them heal and watch them fight. Watch them grow like sprouts 
from buried seeds. Watch their fires burn brighter, burn lighter. Watch them find home, across mountains,
 across continents of grasslands. Everything to be said, will be said,
 a slow pouring of liquid from the mouths 
of us, skeletons from our closets turned 
milky white, and we will speak until
 they drip, even the dripping will stop.
 Then I will know you, or know what you know
 of you, to the border line where love starts and we speak new languages beyond.
 You fill the spaces 
in ways I didn’t think anyone could. There, we stood in a forest tied to each other surrounded by branches,
 kissed soaking wet and alive. You've shouted into
 the regret you held, through the veneer 
of the sadness and helplessness
 that I've written about. 
You have finger tracing eyes and I have map tracing fingers. 

Sometimes I find you in landscapes, in summer storms, in a sunrise or in snow that falls slower than you think it could. Your skin, pale as winter, begging for my warmth. I see stars on your skin, and in it, too. At night when the moon moves across my Southern windows, your stars shine onto my skin. I spend my time when you are sleeping, giving them new names. Is this the root of your fire? Are you burning still, light years from where I sleep? 
I would sleep with just the thought of you, with the silhouette of a single memory. With the scent you left years after you've touched me. I would lose myself in the fabric of the shirt you wore. Tangle my fingers around your skin. 



The one who breaks you and the one who heals you are never the same person. 

And still, we seem to commit to the one who drops us the hardest, even just for the moment, because that's what people do. I guess we would rather know what it's like to fall, despite everything we have ever known about flying. Because we would rather burn despite what they've told us about fire. We would rather love and get hurt than not have loved at all.

At first, I gave you everything. Pieces of me. Pieces of me left scattered, pieces left laying on our lounge room floor, a trail of your movements working your way through me. Whenever it pleased you. Use me up for whatever I can give you. My heart would beat vibrantly. 
Vibrantly in your arms. For you. 
My heart burned when you took it and caged it in your hands. 

I can't feel my skin but you feel better when we touch.

You wanted everything I was giving up, but my love was never enough. 
You take everything I have, my love is never enough. 
Use me up for everything I have. 

Now, my heart beats violently. Violently in my chest. Use me up for all I have for you. 
Tell me, how long do you hold onto a memory? How do you decide between the pain of remembering and the pain of letting go? I can see your fear, surrounded by your skin, surrounded by your eyes. But now it's too late. 

I can't feel my skin but you feel better when we touch. Use me up.


My moon

You are a hot cup of tea on a December morning, an ice cold shower in the middle of July. You are rain tapping out secret messages on my window, whispering untold stories of our future. You are everywhere and nowhere. With you, passion has a taste, love has a taste too. My bones don't make sense but I feel them shiver in all my moments of endlessly missing you.
Your eyes set fire to my soul, your hands set fire to my skin, your words set fire to my mind. Every part of me is blushing and burning from you.

I've been waiting in lonely places for you with wasted days in these bedroom walls.

My love could be as fierce as ocean winds that rip through the clouds like tigers teeth and bear claws, like wolves making midnight wishes on amber moons. I'll be your tornado baby, twisting through the air shaking your soul like every last tree in the forest. Even if you are a quiet forest surviving off the moon alone, your light is extraordinary.


The language of flowers

You know what is one of the saddest things I've ever heard? You are your own best friend. You can only ever really rely on yourself. It is no one else who is going to really comfort you enough to know how to fix you when you are broken on the lounge room floor. How to put back together the cracked surface and crumbling insides.

I often wonder what it would be like to live with certainty. Can you ever really be certain? Certain, like your morning coffee or that cigarette for your one thousand and one problems. 

Sentimentality is a central part of my personality. It is a cute but ultimately childish crunch. It's not quite a strong enough sedater to the morning paper - one cannot watch enough puppy videos to negate the understanding that we are fucked - but it is to me what I imagine yoga may be to you. It doesn't change the details but it certainly makes them more palatable.
I often create my own metaphor, to suit the story I want to tell. When things are good, my story is good. Life has more grey than a metaphor will allow. Be weary of metaphors.
I'll write pieces from a song or a bunch of words that sound nice and find them scattered through out my books, my phone and my bags. 'Make sure that your aspirations are truly what you want. Few roads will leave you as empty as the ones that lead you nowhere' - I wrote this down recently, I can't remember where I heard it. It felt profound though.

I'm the kind of person who stands at the platform in the same spot every day, yet I despise routine. I always stare at the graffitied tunnels and wonder who would have the balls to write it there and how didn't they get caught, what are their names? I used to mistake jets for stars. I confused the buzzing of summer bugs with low-flying airplanes and would forget to cover myself with insect repellent all the while mum telling me to cover my mouth when I yawned. My skin dry from the sand and salt water against my skin with different shades of burnt red across my nose, dirt stained socks and the mistakes that lived in my threads. I felt apart of everything, the city, the moon, the man on the moon with his velvet dinner jacket.

My mind is like an ambiguous teenager with way too many pets. Experimenting and embracing the unknown. Fearless to the point of possible self destruction living only for now without any regard for tomorrow. Roaring music plays while the sound of silence remains. A stubborn and passionate risk-taker screaming at the top of its lungs, throwing tantrums until the army screeches to be home before midnight. It's wrong more than half the time, but that's why it's so alluring.

Where is she?



You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever felt till now. And I was convinced you'd remain the most beautiful thing I'd ever feel. Do you know how limiting that is? To think I'd tasted the rawest form of honey and everything else would be refined and synthetic. That nothing beyond this point would add up. That all the years beyond me could not combine themselves to be sweeter than you.
There has been evenings, sunsets, sunrises, days, weeks, months, birthdays, years even, in everything you have said. Before and now. I had walked you off, I had walked off an old me. You are the risk I've always been willing to take. But eventually I lost my mind, waiting for you to make up yours.
Did you think I was a city, big enough for a weekend getaway?
I am the town surrounding it. The one you've heard stories about.
There are no neon lights here, no skyscrapers, no statues.
But there is thunder. For I can make bridges tremble.
I am not street meat, I am homemade chili jam.
Spicy enough to cut the sweetest thing your lips will ever touch.
I am not police sirens. I am the fireflies spitting from your fireplace.
I'd burn you but still, you couldn't take your eyes off me.
I am all four seasons in one day. 
I am not a hotel room, I am home.
I am not the water you want, I am the whiskey you need.
Don't come here with expectations and try to make a vacation out of me.

I would have held together your universe with enough force to carry you through your tormented moments but with enough love to crumble down to allow you to shine and I would have fought for you until every bone in my body was broken. Know that.
If you needed honey, mine would have flowed from my arms to yours, no effort and no asking. If you needed sugar, I would have been your lifetime supply.
Don't mistake salt for sugar.
This is all salt.
Salt is raging against your skin and leaving you dry.

Beautiful, crushingly so. At one point, you looked like the rest of my life.


You turn me on like

You are one of those people, it's clear, who needs help. I think you should stop speaking in a low, attractive voice whenever you call. Stop making me think of velvet blankets and the smell of rain on hot cement or that first taste of cinnamon on my tongue. I miss you in tiny earthquakes. In little underground explosions. My soil is a hot disaster. Stop inciting stirrings, movements between us, little rebellions, causing chaos in all of my darker places. The top half of my body is in gross political warfare with the lower. One part of me is roaring and the other wholly disapproves.
You are beautiful danger. Do not make me open up. Some books are bound tightly for a reason. Stop wearing clothes the way you do, don't have them cling to your body like that. God knows you are beautiful and unfair. I think perhaps you should spare a thought, for those who are sick over you. Burning up with you, damp with you. You're a slow fever. Don't be so engaging, clever or amusing. You are causing confusion and jams in tight places. You are a purposeful accident. An accident in waiting. The type of accident with casualties spanning from me to you and here to there, a potential tragedy, a stunning unborn disaster. Should I touch you?  I must not enter. I should not enter, but I might.



Swimming away

There was something unusual about them, something deeper, the way they fell into each other so naturally like they had been carved from the same part of the earth. There were star systems bursting at their fingertips when they touched. Their hearts sang the same song and the universe had planned for them. She knew that.  He felt familiar when she met him for the first time, when they spoke, or laughed she could tell she had been there before. And when they kissed, oh, when they kissed, she felt the energies of a thousand lifetimes on their lips, like their souls had known each other all along.
Although, her heart was not captured easily, she was disinterested in small talk, disillusioned in love. But when they made that eye contact, that connection, and if he could find his way to her heart. She would fall for him like gravity had let go of the earth.

Perhaps there are no soul mates and love is neither written in the stars or planned by the gods, but a choice, one built on hope and connection. Not served on a silver platter by a whim of fate, but something that must be fought for.