all i could see

was the colour of skin

when it comes alive.

that translusecent hue

halfway between electricity

halfway between science.

my hands were tongue-tied

i wrote out instructions for viewing my work

you could not make sense

of this language formed

in the pauses between our thoughts.

it seemed
that you could

sense me

like a ship
passing in the night.

the lights

in the windows
of your house

flickering

each time i pass.

you had nothing left to say

except a soft illusion

to the threat of further

violence.

i began an etymology

of fire

and suddenly incinerated

everything

i said.

the teeth at the back
of your mouth

soft like the fruit
of ancient trees

my heart beats at
45
rotations per minute.

the rooms in your house
are continents expanding

throes of oceanic drift

plates shifting
in tectonic patterns.

all the celluloid
had caught on fire

by the time
we made it out
of the room.

there are some
pixels
that will never
project

like century-old
mirrors
that will not
reflect.

words were
billowing
from that conversation,

unravelling in spools
& hanging
half way between
the ocean and the sky.

the only power I had left
was language

and I only had

a small amount
of that.

***

you told me
there is no such thing
as a love affair
without a paper trail

all human relations
rendered by
the quiet testimony
of week old emails
& paper notes stuck
to the fridge.

by the end I decided
to go scorched earth
with you

not a scrap
of evidence
would be left
anywhere.

drowsy skin

& rising.

we road circles

around the ring road

on our way back home.

our limbs

in holding pattern

the pads of our fingertips

serenade

the empty spaces

on a sheet of paper.

there is a certain majesty

when trains arrive early

and you can sit in them
quietly

contemplating the journey ahead.

echoes travel
through air vents

sounds sit like
pieces of raw meat
in the sun

flies slide down
the walls where
sweat gathers
in the small
of your back.

bored with
language
and other acts of denial

we made a pledge to honour
only the most
profound moments

like the surprise caused
when blood stops flowing
to a limb.

It’s like

Reading a book with half the words blacked out

It’s like

Remembering something that has never happened

It’s like

Travelling to the end of the earth

It’s like

Starting something from the beginning

It’s like

Forgiving yourself

our conversation turned
to a feedback loop

I collected the things
we almost said

and built a memorial
in the park near our house.

our neighbours brought objects

like old mobile phones
and sheets of transparent paper

to make a shrine

and I would come each day
with new words

as my offering.

i tried to draw a
memory map
of the first house
we ever lived in.

the hallway kept
looping back on itself
an eternal return
in my imaginary
floorplan.

***

you were in the kitchen
madly googling bloodlines

and other diaphanous things like

middle names,
insignias and
border-crossings.

i took your findings and
marked out our territory

a vanishing point between

then and there.

the seventeenth floor

thick air

& flickering

classrooms filled with clouds

the atmosphere outside

evaporating

she grew cacti
on the roof
of every house
she had ever owned.

the neighbourhood cats
would weave along
the corrugated iron
like guerrillas through a
mine-field.

in some ways,
it was a secret pledge
she had made with herself:
not to let anyone in.

her own juicy piece of armor
that thrived
like a bruised fruit
swelling

redfern st

glistening with fever

a clear autumn sky

and grant mc lennan.

***

i found 3 coins from 1988

-the year we met-

in an old handbag

i was about to throw away.

***

it reminded me

of the way you believe

that objects have secret lives

which move against each other

like songs.