Many books spill over and out into the landscape of my home. Tumbling and falling, they cry out for attention.
They sit and sit, yet some receive nix; others, a cursory glance or an occasional flutter of my fingers.
Many books sit in a crate, ready to be loved by someone.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“So sunny and cool.”
[8 hours pass on the sofa]
“I love how we have all these amazing escapades from the couch, yet we never go outside.”
“It’s not so good for the waistline, though.”
“Yeah. Do you care?”
“Feed me cheese, and-.”
“Keep going! We need to get to England. My wife wants more gold.”
“Bloody hell! Helga is wild. Can’t you give her something else? Maybe if you slept with her once in a whil-“
“She gets plenty of satisfaction! Keep the scull shit going.”
I dreamed of us walking through the Melbourne streets.
The city was dark. All the people walked around with candles of different shapes and sizes.
We shared a candle and watched the way all the candlelight shapes moved on the building walls.
You and I never felt so free in the ambience of no electricity, yet the city never looked so beautiful.
There was no coffee to drink, no sweets to eat, no food to feast, so we stood for a while looking at the Yarra River.
Thousands of people with candles moved along the river, over the bridges, and into the night.
We used our dying phone charge to take photos of this beautiful night.
When we awoke, the photos on our phones were all blank. You couldn’t erase the, “I love you” that escaped your lips.
A crystal chalice is topped up again and again as he ingurgitated many bottles of claret.
In a haze of inebriated numbness, he imagines seeing a nymph stepping on seashells.
When he wakes, he’s lying in the pantry covered in eggshells with the dog licking his face.
‘I love you like I love Pavlova. Will you be my Pavlova?’
‘Do you want me to be fruity and frisky? I’ll give you a double mango and a double strawberry surprise.’
‘First, let me sweep you off your feet.’
‘What!? Don’t you drop me!’
‘Oh no, you’re heavy.’
‘Stopping flapping your legs.’
A broken heart touched him once. Now he works in a lab trying to find a panacea.
This thesis is solid, the results are collated, yet the cure never passes the testing phase.
The funding starts to dry up, and all hope seems lost. Then he finds the cure: love or death.
“It’s so grey. See the rain?”
“Yes. Do you see the way the grey extinguishes the last of the light?”
“I do. Son, the grey is beautiful. It reminds me of your Mother before the desolation of her life.”
“Dad, how sentimental you’ve become today.”
“Your Mother always knew my heart.”
Spring has come to your heart, yet I sit here in my Winter world wondering what you’re doing with all of those so-called, “friends”.
I love you, yet you are like a Hydrangea in bloom. Your love will last from early spring to late Autumn, yet it never sustains the Winter.
A coral coloured dress with hints of blue and green moved only for me on that March day.
Now only a photo remains of you standing on the Littoral with the sea winds moving through you.
I keep the dress in a special box marked, “Coral Heart”, with a note to bury it with me.