I try remember if I had been drinking, smoking or balling my eyes out: whatever the reason, I had been blind and tears, or alcohol, had smeared the black words across a large portion of that useless journal I’ve kept for too long. I’m scouring through years of desperate self obsessed records for at least one moment where I looked out at something else other than myself. Maybe just one time I’ll be sitting on a dry patch of grass with those particularly hard blades sticking into my skin, itching, and the white streaked sky is morphing leprechaun’s and elephant faces and, and, and there it is, it's made patterns on our bare arms, the grass has, on you and me, and all over our faces because the rug’s now all crumpled up and big black ants tramp across it to crumbs of food, and our jeans have clumps of dirt and leaves and twigs. We’ve been lying under a big old gum since morning watching children being chased by parents, young uncles, aunties, single men throwing dog’s sticks, cricket matches on a distant pitch. Whistle, a small crowd shouts. And we’re playing cards, 500 (I like to win), pulling faces. You’ve got that dam camera in your hand taking photo’s: long socks with red stripes, giggles, kisses – photo’s of lips and tongue’s, wet mouths, doey eyes and curves. And there you are - your breath on me, the hairs on your top lip tickle (but I wont stop). Our cheeks brush; you run your nose around mine. Eskimo me, one, two, three. Close your eyes. The leaves in the tree shake and I look up and see it’s there: winter blows hair in our faces. Rug up now. The sky is clear blue, streaks of runaway clouds.
You swallowed me that day.
Every day.And when I try to find pieces of me or you, or you and me, or the sky I've strung in the black words I can barely read, all I see is a silly drunk girl caught somewhere between the touch of an old lovers breath and pages that wont remember.