the walls are
wearing narratives
like any other night.
it's late & it's early
& we're only waiting.
& we're only waiting.
listen to the blues,
scribble in my notebook,
drink tea in return for
spent time.
at six:oh-three the only
thing left burning is
my graduation candle
at eight:twentyone
i toss my results
in my head, my
paper fan in my bag,
clutch sunscreen
in my hand.
spend the hours
making a nuisance
of myself.
later i
curl up in
the shower & cry.
i cry because you did,
i cry because it's almost over,
i cry because there's nowhere to run.
i cry out of blind relief.
[saturday]
awoken by a
phonecall at ten. i
roll out of bed & croak
"shit, are the UAIs out already?
...
screw it, i'll check now.
stay with me, okay?"
i spend forever
getting to your house.
((find the 370 runs half as often on saturdays))
why is it always saturday?
feel a little awkward
as everyone makes
waves.
opera-house-splendour
buy a ticket to the ballet.
((nevermind the terrible seats))
take the bus
down to the sea.
in a sudden
lust for water.
saltstung skin.
the lovely way
it's always cold.
make a sandcastle
worth fighting over.
we kick off our shoes,
lift the hems of
our garments &
wander into
the rockpool.
& if you're leaving so soon,
will this be the last?
sydney
seems as cruel
as it is beautiful.
we're about to plunge
into darkblue water.
& truthfully
i don't need
a hand to hold.
post.script. there are fivehundred&sixteen planks on the bridge