'the essence of coffee, 6 p.m. sunday'
there's
an experiment to be found
in all of this, here, awake
yet eternally sleepy and fused
to this bed which speaks of a father
i saw and hugged and told i
didn't connect with when i was barely
thirteen, just getting into the vibrancy
of teenage depression and the accompanying
pull of heartbeats found only in poetry
and the smell of pregnant summer and
foetal-cramped wind pushed over
the hairs of my fingers travelling through
the pages of a book i carried with me
just yesterday, spray-paint waves lurching
my stomach and telling me it's only half a
journey, that i should swim in the kina-infested
bay out here in the hauraki's
crystal glare.
shoosh.
'crush'
you
deny what is
apparent, eyes closed
to a saltier connection
i've only found in the interlude
between concertos mirrored back to me
in the way flesh tumbles past at 3 a.m., entirely unsure
where the rest of the night will take them, believing
there is only one chance to give, receive, transform
and crush under mutable shadows heaving
with the expectations of
a twenty-something
year old out
drowning
in this
city.
Submission Name: o.0
