seasonal

s o f t l y

i ask them to send me

the one

whose eyes see the 

thunder

but whose feet do not

run.

——

b l a n k l y

i stare at your well-trodden 

shoes

and directly i ask

which way do you

choose

——

I ask for it 

s i m p l y -

someone to look me

square 

in the eye

and say

I was there.

——

t h e   o n e

who knows my smell

in summer

autumn

winter and 

spring.

kamiyama

i wish you could smell how it is here 

the air

is heavy 

and thick with steam

rising 

off the pavements 

salt, metal, and warm earth.

and on occasion, when the wind shifts, gardenias and warm wisteria trail to remind me of your back door step.

when nothing was too much,

and everything was beautiful.

      and we would sit 

      watching the mist move through

      the cedars

      and wonder how to return what

      the water gave us.

sleep

Her heavy breathing leans toward snoring, competing with the heating running under our flooring -

her head on my feet -

the weight of her warming 

unmoved by my movement

her breath

languid at

morning.

Unfinished

Are my shingles falling off?

The tiles upon my room, 

mossed into submission?

Have the weather boards warped?

Split into splinters that now the weather is invited in?

Did you forget to tend the rot in my eaves now strained beneath the weight of the sky?

If you saw me now, as you had entered me then, would the rusted hinges at the frames of each door still endear you?

Or will you take them all off and replace them with steel?

If you saw me now, as you once ran your fingers through the knots and the tangles of a fraying mind, would you still comb your hands along my insides?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Would you walk 

past

this dilapidated lean-to

and recognise the 

beams that once

you

learn into?

Could you

feel

the way this house

was once a home

and do you think

you could

maybe

one day

call it your own?

window-shaped home

this window

of mine that looks out to

the sky -

you’d wake me up to 

watch the 

sunrise.

and now 

just I 

watching lights flicker

between the clouds -

remembering when

our story

started

and this window-shaped

home

was ours.

come home

come home
to me

touch me like the gentlest of winds
grazing the rivers of stagnant sweat
across sun stained
shoulder
blades

come home
to me

as you would,
easing calloused fingertips
through sleep knotted hair
to rest your palm in
the space
between my mouth
and collar
bones

come home
to me

and be the full moon's
light gently rising
upon creased linen sheets
as a reminder
that it is night and
i will never
be alone

come home
to me

the way the wattle birds call
to each other in the
dewed dawn to
remind you
that a new sun is caught
between the spaces
between your
eyes
and
lashes

come home
to me

the key is where we've always left it and
i am waiting.

in this homei no longer have sight(the lights are off and we both knownobody is home)

but i will search for you on bended knees through thehalf built house that was raisedaround you and me.

and palms to the wall 
i feel for the gaps and the cracks in the foundationswe hand poured for each otherto stand on -

i can no longer see the framed pictures -memory laced drawings of midnight stories -

of falling asleep with your arms beneath me 
and my hand across your face and my head restedin your collarbones -

of watching the morning sun creep through dawn soaked windows and listening to your breathing, wonderingif you’re still awake -

i am blindly tracing my fingersthrough the darkest corridors of thisabandoned home
crawling through memories,
and smells, and moments, 
(and i’ve never felt this afraid
to be this alone)and i am searching for the epicentre -to remember when the salt 
from our tears rusted the framework 
in the house that we built for each other -

and when i find iti’ll crawl into the 
cold, now damp, crevasse
the shattered space we could never retrace
and if i lie still enoughi can hearbetween drops of rainthe sound of the heart that i loved beating
just the same.

here

This is where I leave you -

the torn out page of the

final chapter of a 

book 

i have never wanted

to put

down 

or to end.

and I will fold the

torn pages 

(i could never burn it) 

into seven and

hide it

in the walls you’ve built

around

yourself.

and maybe once

i had a key

but the locks have

changed 

(i no longer remember their shape now)

but when they come

to tear

them down

(and they will -

             they always do)

the rubble that

remains

in your mind and

in your

way

-

i hope you find

the seven-folded 

letter

i’ve left 

behind

and you come find

me

if you change

your

mind.

s a r a h

tonight
you're on my mind
and all the moments
you left
behind
and i know that i'll spend the rest
of my life
living a story you'd be
proud
to find.

for the moments i saved
your life
are as numerous as the ones
where you gave
me mine -
and i know that
wherever you are
it's me
behind your
eyes

here

you knew them before you met them
their words
years before
had followed you down to the ocean
where you'd wept
hoping to draw the tide
nearer in.

you hadn't seen them coming and
they sought you out amongst
eyes of thousands
 and they sat with you
and you were pulled in their tide tired eyes
and you knew in the
shared smoke that
this
is where you begin.

and their words leave a ringing in
your ears that's not like anything
you've yet heard -
they are soft
and kind
and strong and
remind you of
when you are entwined
in early morning light
beneath sheets white -

listening for the sound
of their breath on the back
of your neck

and you can't remember a time
when you felt safer
than this -
the quiet minutes in our heart wrenching lives,
when our hearts find
the people
that need to be found.

home

on our drives
home
i know where the traffic is
slow
and that's good cos
i don't want to let
you
go -

and if i'd known
it would feel
so alone to
ebb in your
flow
just know
that i'd do it again
just to feel you
close.

this

who do you see when
you think of me
in the minutes before you dream -
what do you see?

for me, i'm alone on a sea cliffed breeze
and i'm in love with nothing
when you come to me

i crossed the line and i saw the other side
and i want to wake with
you
in my eyes

Sarah

i've no one to collect the paper clippings
nor a person to drape blankets while sleeping
    not a person to hold me in hours of grief
or a hand under covers to hold for relief -

i have only the soles on the feet of this soul
to garner the strength in loss to guide me home

and there's the moment between breaths
when i remember you said
- keep your heart open wherever you're led

you

I will always remember you this way
under skylit awnings
with soft spoken stories
and eyes gently falling
in love with no warning.

you are the warm air sifting
through crisp spring mornings
with coffee laced kisses and
words languid and yawning.

you settled on my skin
when i didn't know where to begin
and came to me as swiftly
as the rain that was pouring

What will you tell them
 the ones that arrive after me -
of my time
and my presence
on this impermeable clay earth?

     Will you speak softly of me, of my perceived gentle wisdom and all encompassing urgency?
     Or of the demons I'd learnt to converse between, and no longer sit amongst in fear?
     Will my bravery be of that which you admire?
     Or will my passing be a memory of insurmountability
 - of deafening solitude defined by fear?
     Will you recall the moments I'd lain beside you,
stroking your hair or your neck or your back,
     breathing silently until I heard your own breath sleeping?
     Or will you recite stories of darkness and heart and magic that none had ever understood?

Will you build altars where I stood?
Or will you imagine the person you thought I would be but never could?

And would you whisper to them,
what a beautiful wonder it is,
to simply
exist.