I Like You

I like bringing you a cup of tea
when you’re in the bath,
the steam from both soothing you,
holding you close.

I like watching you work,
the tiny pulse beneath your temple
beating to the drum of our love.

I like how we’re always together
in life and during the night.
We take turns being koalas,
and I like it best when
you’re the eucalyptus tree.

Done With the Digital Age

I no longer think in handcrafted images or those made from swirls of acrylic paint.  My thoughts are contained to 280 characters, the font is Arial, size 12.  Every dot above an “i” is a million pixels and I spend my days wondering which keyboard symbol has the most: is it the “_” or the double-whammy “+”?

Tired, I suggest we go and see what lays over the sand dunes.

The sunlight sucks colour from our vision so everything is muted.  A pavement made from slabs of wood takes us over a strangley small body of water, the beach must have had a dispute with the sea so the tide stole away, taking with it many confused creatures.

Birds bob in time of the rippling water.  The winter sun glares down at us.  We’re trudging through the sand that’s been swept across the walkway and try not to grimace at the piles that have snuck into our trainers.

Electricity shoots through my closed eyelids as politicians gurgle about grey policies and celebs lay sprawling on yachts, flashing their billion-dollar tummies, worth more money than a starving country’s GDP.

The walkway invites us into a sheltered grove where, in the summer months, sunbathers steal a few moments in the cool.  A hammock fashioned from scraggly ropes stretches between two trees where a hooded boy lounges, eyes fixed on his phone.

My boyfriend is always a few steps ahead while pixels clog my brainwaves.  Does he love you if he’s always widening the distance? It’s like he can’t wait to leave.

Stay in the moment, meditation apps say, feel the plastic bag you’re carrying crinkle and move with the wind.  The weight of your backpack dragging you back to earth.  A faint ache of nausea, impossible to shake.

“What are you doing?” He’s now facing me, puzzled.

“Being in the moment.”

Half-eyes open, lips easing to a smile.  The plastic bag is carrying a crumby plastic container and several tissues wet with snot.  Is this what crazy people do?

You have to lunge every now again so you’re not sucked under the wood slabs, it’s like skipping over a boxer with knocked out teeth.  My gut swells and threatens to burst but before I can complain, his piss makes the perfect arch and we watch it disappear beneath the slabs.

I squat, push, and a river gushes into the dirt.

We dedicate the rest of the day to savouring every bite of greasy, stringy pizza, and I choose to write solely in a yellow notebook.

My bones grind under the weight of constant vibrations, pointless notifications, as I realize a NUMBER sums up how much a human is worth.

You carry on, I’ll stay here on the walkway and marvel the gathering of bushes on the left hand side, so full and self-assured, smothering houses so you only catch a glimpse of a peeping roof, while the right is handed to the waves, waiting to wipe out everything we know.

Just know when your time is drawing to a close, where memories and regrets take hold of the megaphone and tear you down, your social currency means nothing.  You’re left aching to have another heart-to-heart with your friends, trying to place the faint cologne on your lover’s skin, and how you never fully appreciated the magic healing powers of a cup of tea.