There, a page over, lies a greater visibility to all things
which define movement. As for my world, it seems extinct.
Famished. Unseasoned and unfinishable.
I speak of disappearance as if it was
a romantic interlude, where I could return to a life
lived in between suspense and a desire for all that breathes
and quickly unravels.
Turquoise is my mood most days. A colour that scrapes the air
with magic, that touches my hands with an almost frightening scent
of what tomorrow might bring. There is danger in this discomfort
that I might live too long, forget the reason I am still here,
waiting for a question that will never be answered until I am gone,
a home away from home, a tissue blown twice too many times
to afford any space upon which to clear my lungs again.
So I can breathe eternal, jump and skip as if I was
seven years old again, mud stuck to my gumboots,
searching for mushrooms, and magpies ready to attack
the next shimmering light in a forest.
I am a boy afraid to go to sleep most nights, afraid of
not quite dreaming the dreams I'd saved for just that moment
when disaster escapes another life to enter yours
until you wake up, knowing there is no release, no sense
of being one with another until they open their lips
and tell you themselves not to worry, not to be so cold
or alone out there in this smoky city, windows open
to possibilities, time clicking down into an enigma
of companionship, locked hands and locked hearts
writing turquoise into the sky with you.