We talk without words.

Lips soft and strong hold me like arms that carry all of the darkest things I’ve burdened you with. And still you stay, hands brushing against cheeks and through my hair. You tuck strands behind my ear and tuck me under your arm so that I can feel as safe and warm as the first night you drove me home. And that’s exactly what you became; my forever home. Your chest, the safest place to lay my head. Eyes so blue that they bring calm after every storm.

And I love you I love you I love you.

In bowling alleys and at kitchen tables and while you brush your teeth. It takes everything in me not to say it every second.

You and I, a lone island in an ocean of throbbing. My wallowing edges meeting your rough, yearning dunes. Me, the lush fronds decaying in your drought-ridden heat. My soft, lacy edges, crisp and scabbed. With ocean waves constantly teasing. Saltwater-sickness, pressing against us in tempting tides of false relief. Our palates and bellies, unfamiliar with the reprieve granted by a sated second. Constant discontent. Constantly aching, constant. You and I, weathering the oceanic destruction and the withering heat to rebuild and rebuild and rebuild again.

She is bedroom eyes and long legs, she is the biggest distraction staring at me from the passenger seat. There is rain and there are eyes on mine as my hand travels toward her. Crosses the space between us to her knee, her thigh, brushing the edge of her black skirt. And there are eyes. And there is rain. She is biting her lip. And I can’t focus on anything except how badly I want my teeth to be the ones on her mouth. And there are eyes on hers instead of the road. And there is rain. And my hand traveling up her leg as the car travels into the other lane. And I can’t stare at anything except her eyes and their yellow-green, as bright as the headlights coming toward us in the dark. We start to spin as a smile creeps on her face. And there are eyes, wide. And there is rain.

I have tried melatonin and ambien and counting sheep. Self care and self harm, self sabotage and self love. Anything to quiet the voices in my head and to let my mind sleep. And then there was you, with soft lips and eskimo kisses. You and the bedtime stories behind your eyes, fingertips laced with sleep as you run them through my hair. Who knew, all along, that you would be the answer to my insomnia?

once upon a pile of rags

torn, soiled and bagged

arose a seam holding strong

before all thread gone

in a wave of wind

dead dyes faded dim

off the toiled weave

to sew in naked dreams

hemmed in faux lines

meld by needle eyes

tattered and discarded

worn hope upon a sleeve

born by a gin long past

a search for familiar patterns

of chalk, folds and pins

stripes, florals, polka dots

I have a firm belief that telling stories is one of the few ways we as humans can perform magic.

We were crafted to tell stories. We have voices to sing and speak with, hands to write and create with, minds to dream and explore with.

Every story or song or painting is made with the sole purpose of finding a connection to people we don’t know and may never meet.

We put our all into making beautiful things and telling our stories so that strangers might see or hear them and maybe feel less alone because of them.

If that isn’t magic I don’t know what is.

There is smoke in the air, but the windows are open. It’s like it is frozen there, a constant reminder that it is 20 degrees outside and not even your body heat can keep me warm. You are radiating, but my breath is caught in my throat. And my eyes follow you as you walk around the room dragging on your cigarette. I am shivering on the mattress you never bothered to take off the floor, desperately trying to hold my breath and keep warm. I know you’ve been drinking, I can smell it on your hands and your lips. There is the faintest smell hidden behind toothpaste and cigarette smoke. I tell myself to stand my ground, to confront you. It is so cold. I tell myself to stand up and yell. My bones are shivering. “Close the window!” I shout instead. And you smirk like I told a joke you almost could be proud of. I wince as you slam it shut.

I am in a dark room, eyes closed to focus on my feet and their hips and the music that’s shaking the floor beneath me. And I feel lost in a bar full of people, I feel wreckless and destructive. I see eyes as sad as mine and I want to drown in them, I want us to destroy each other. I am drawn to faces and mouths and hands on warm bodies, moving because we know if we stop, our sadness will engulf us. We are our own personal fires, designed to burn to death. My heart races with the tempo and then my anxiety is choking me and I see eyes searching for mine. I find myself searching back, and when we find each other, we are drawn to the chaos we could cause. We are drawn to the destruction, the madness, the end.

you don’t look sad; you feel it.

you look blue — and i am

wiping the colour from your eyes,

until i fade from sight

and my body distorts, warping

like film, spinning

on a reel that carries bone

to white skin. that changes my voice

to an echo of a song

you thought you knew.

this language is foreign to you now.

which part is love? is it all?

so much love, so much agony

for something you

can’t even touch. what do you

feel now? i remember

growing up in adelaide.

i fell in love and it killed me.

you held my hand in a tidal pool

and looked at it

like you had so much more to say.