The two of us stood in this place on countless occasions,
as you talked to me about so many unimportant topics.
I listened to your words, not because I cared for them;
I listened to your talk because I knew the hunger for your flesh and blood would be satisfied soon enough.
The way you looked at, “the big old elegant green one
with unkempt hair like mine” was a woman’s talk to me, yet it never moved me.
I think of you, and I play your mannerisms, your face,
your voice, your speech; I play them over and over in my mind so that I will never forget.
The riverside willow of you. The unkempt hair that hung
around your beautiful face, like the weeping willow branches hang down into the river, is all I have left of you.
I realised too late that your time with me here in this
place was more important than only the hunger, which is all I knew, for your flesh and your blood.
Your flesh and your blood was my desire for you, yet
your words, your actions, your love, and you, the unkempt hair you, was the reason for my hunger.
Standing at The Nobbies, Phillip Island.
Your heart yearns for the sea.
Sitting in your office, you drift towards the southern saltwater.
Lost in the south sea, you drift unnoticed and unafraid of what may become of you.
You float on the waves, the sun begins to set, and you think of nothing.
The sound of an Oud moves a foreign memory to the fore of your mind as you walk through the streets of a foreign town as a foreigner.
They look at you with different coloured eyes, yet you look at them with the eyes of a person unseasoned in the ways of the world.
The smell of Rose Water, Orange Blossom, and mint tea reminds you of another memory from before you were whom you appear to be now.
A market tempts you to buy material possessions you thought you would never own, as something about the items takes you back.
The touch of a warm breeze moves your legs towards a place of Olive and Oleander, as the memory becomes a reality and you know
why you came to this place.
The light begins to take cover under a sea of clouds;
the clouds move closer and grower darker and darker.
I keep the light off in my room, waiting for the rain to
begin, and hoping for the chance to show you a photo.
You are stuck in North Queensland being burnt by the
sun every day; I sit here in the cold, wet winter I love.
The night creeps closer, and the sky becomes darker,
as the rain starts to fall and move down the window.
I take a series of photos, then send my best one to you,
although I think you will say the weather is yucky again.
The night sets in. I imagine you out and about in the
garden, talking to the neighbour or cooking dinner for two.
You stay locked in North Queensland, and I stay locked in
Gippsland, as we wait for the chance to hug and kiss again.
The light is a faded memory on the horizon, as twilight loses
to the night and the absence of moon and stars leaves only the reflection of someone I should know better in the window.
Words spoken we feared would come
to spill out from old rusty speakers.
We never thought this day would come,
we always knew this day would come; we did it to ourselves, and we knew it.
Words spoken, hurried tones to loved ones
for they will be the last words from our lips.
We stood and sat as the day moved along;
a last dose of intimacy between the two of us.
The record player sits still waiting for the album,
yet we cannot decide what will be the last song.
We play them all for the rest of the day waiting;
then a song starts to play we both love and
Too tired for daydreams, yet they come and plague your mind.
You stare out the window at the man with his mower, wondering what it would be like to ride on top as he pushes it along.
Images of you vibrating furiously, him pushing you along, and all the grass covering you.
Your fluffy face comes to me, and I think of the way you pawed my face, a meow, or sleeping beside Daddy.
On the saddest of days, I look at a cloud shaped like your ears with tears of sadness for you, my sweet girl, for you were my Emma, and now you are gone.
Emma the Cat, who passed away last Monday at 15
Words were spoken, they never existed before.
We talked about change, difference, radical noises. Our speech was louder, clear convictions, true directions.
Words are spoken in guarded tones, censured.
We talk about survival, sleeping in, making sad noises. Our speech is quieter, muffled opinions, limited directions.
“The stories she told! I don’t see ‘er so well now, yet she’s in my heart still telling stories.”
“She must have been an interesting woman.”
“My Lasse, she was no woman unless women are made of water and shells. No, she’s the sea! The sea is the best storyteller.”
Walking towards work; dreaming about being rich, staying in bed, champers for breakfast, bending our legs together, and trying out the waffle maker.
Reality floods back and I realise my skirt is too tight; the Covid Spread, like a Biscoff addiction, gone wrong, has me in its hold.
Walking down the ally towards the office, noticing the Passion Pop bottles placed randomly near the old broken door, and feeling university nostalgia coming on like an awkward chance meeting.
Turning back, I see the brick wall, and a door leading to more bricks, pipes, a hidy hole for one. A cat passes over there looking for food in the bins, and I feel sad; humans shit me sometimes.
Standing in an ally, hoping no cars come by to take me from my thoughts, and staring into the magical Dandewrong wall portal, hoping it will take me to another dimension; away from the grind.
Nothing happens. It is a hole in the wall, and nothing more. Then I look again and think this is only a reminder of the crumbling history we once knew. Crumbling history before our eyes, as this place becomes something else.