Once, twice.

I know you won't care, but I still remember. That kiss, that rooftop. It was late. We were drunk. Was there a bear? Yes, a bear. A large bear, covered in green fake grass. You took my hand and led me away from everyone else. You took me behind that large green bear, to where no-one could see. You held a finger to your lips. I nodded. You smiled. We kissed. Your lips were soft. It was a kiss I'd dreamed about once. Ok, twice. It was our secret.

I kissed those lips for the next few weeks. You came to see me at work. We kissed. We went to a Festival together. We spent a whole night dancing, kissing, then spent the morning on a hill, watching the sun rise slowly over the mountains, sitting amongst discarded beer cans. You rested your head on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. Once. Twice.

The next night I came to find you at your tent. You weren't there. It was New Years Eve. We were meant to stand together. Wait, kiss together when the clock struck midnight and the coloured fireworks would burst over our heads. I had dreamed about it once. Twice. I looked for you everywhere. I never found you. You never answered your phone. The New Year came in. I was alone.

I later saw you in photographs from the Festival on the shoulders of some guy.

Was he your New Year's kiss then?

Fig.2

I watch her from a distance, on that swing.

Those smooth slender legs that used to wrap themselves around my waist.
Those arms that used to wrap themselves around my neck.
Those perfect lips that used to wrap themselves around my Own.

Her Summer dress billows in the wind, yellow hair trails behind like a shimmering flag. The pendulum motion has me in a trance. She swings back and forth, back and forth. My heart beats faster. She travels higher. It is like a beautiful song. Silent to all but me. Impulses can no longer to be contained. I stand and walk towards her, caught in my own reverie.

But wait. I know this song. I know what really swings over there. That is nothing more than a bewitching Siren. Alluring and dangerous. A beautiful embodiment of bullshit stories.

I turn and leave.

Was.

I remember you sent me a text, saying that your knees were sore from the shower. I told you I was a writer, but never what sort. I don’t think you ever thought of a journalist, or buddy journalist, as a writer and you made me recite one of ‘my’ poems. I chose a Poe and you bought it. We slept together twice more that night before I left for work.

When I arrived at the café I drank a smoothie and asked my boss some questions about my penis. I’d never slept with a girl before, much less three times without a condom, and it was starting to resemble a purple-dye mushroom. By the time I got home I’d forgotten your name. I think it was Christie. You lived in an apartment near the Yarra, and you still don’t know I was a virgin.

For Mons.

And a feeling of sadness comes over me,
that is not akin to pain.
And resembles sorrow only,
as the mist resembles vain.

Coffee

Strange flourish you have when you pour the milk, like an artist flicking paint on a willing participant. Huge heavy eyelids reveal and hide tiny sultanas intermittently. I can't tell if this is part of the courting, but I gather from the free coffee that you think I am cute. 

I'm assuming you never got the poem I wrote on the napkin either, as you never rang. Perhaps you knew what I'd done in the rear toilet only an hour before, or perhaps you merely thought I was cute; just cute. 

I see you riding your bike from time to time, along the streets by my house. One day i'll buy you a potato cake and a Diet Coke, and we can sit on the swings in the park down the road. If you want I will steal some of my Mum's vodka, and we can make a mixer. I'll tell you stories of my sporting achievements and prowess on a skateboard. You can read me notes jotted down in your workbook when the cafe has a lull, and tell me of lovers past. 

You'll never find out what I really want, as you never rang.

Writing Paper

Noses aren’t just for scratching

Remember when they fell asleep touching

Never waking from my breathing

Only shouts and near screaming.

 

Gas can’t be just for driving -

It helped me light this burning hand. 

Same Circles

He’s perfect for you; you run in parallel circles, so at some house party soon he will no doubt find you. Perhaps you’ll be a little high, or a little drunk, and he’ll say the right thing, and you’ll find his smell and skin colour exotic and you will kiss. The kiss will strike something in you, like it always did when we kissed, and together you will leave. I won’t feel anything on the news of this happening, because in my mind it’s destined to happen.  

Tram Chick

Dark skinned, pierced nose, tapping your feet, probably to The Strokes. You nearly set fire to your cardigan as I watch. I’ve never seen a girl with a Zippo before. Where are you coming from? Probably RMIT University, studying graphic design under the false pretense that you may end up doing album covers, or the packaging for a new tampon brand. Nonetheless, you smell amazing. A mixture of sex, cigarettes and Kate Moss’ scent. I wonder how many times a week you eat at Lentil, and whether you admit to the fact that you once loved Jack Johnson.

You’re the dark skinned girl, with the pierced nose. You smell great, but given the chance, I’d take some of that lighter fluid to your clothes. 

There’s nothing romantic about that.