Wear your raincoat.
you.
me.
us…?
Wear your raincoat. belongs to the following groups:
All Things Poetic, Artistic, Philosophical and Melbourne & VictoriaThe cold fractures the air. Separating my breath in wordless speech bubbles in my outgoing. Carbon dioxide ellipsis. And you, hanging on every non-utterance.
The sweet lick of early morning glides beneath my shoes as I move forward sleep-walk style, eyes closed and humming mutters. A still cloak of laziness haunts the dawn as the bleary eyed star, hung over the horizon, prepares for slow ascent.
It isn’t quite any time, stuck in the ring of toadstool gazes, and the twinkling in your eyes is only the reflection of fairy lights – some unbothered person’s elongation of the first coming.
Something is in the air. And it isn’t festivity. It is tacked onto the edges of fabric as gaudy frill, cheap lace, fraying tassels. Something distressingly maudlin.
You offer no sympathy, yet you are waiting for my own. But – in return for what?
I lick my fingertips, gliding over printed skin; holding a hand out for the wind. Soft tracings of gases, of knowing where it’s going. Perhaps for some hint of where I am.
The morning roll call of the birds; the trees and their shudder shakes of droplets as I pull a close limb down toward me and run as the leaves rain down their nightly catchment. Puddles of watery green. A child-like joy in the simplest of things.
But then there are your eyes. The wait that flitters out from them.
I turn toward the placid lakes of last night’s downpour, reflecting mirror images of sky and street, more beautiful in their crystal imitations. Dispersing their perfect reproductions with earthquakes from my feet, I trade beauty for the slow clouding of silt.
Turning to the drains I see the rivers coursing into roaring seas. Lost ships dwindling under the deluge, once proud bottles of coke and dirty discarded wrappers.
I sense your parted mouth with tongue between; your quickened step, covering splintered lips with small treasures of moisture. You’re biting away dead pieces of you.
Houses start their daily rhythms with the clatter crackle of kitchen noises permeating window panes and doorframes, starting the cacophony of today. Symphony of the mundane.
Cars start for work. Children grumble moan their distress for school time. Bums shiver down stale swigs of whisky; open up their chessboards.
Then there’s you.
Still waiting for me to say I love you.
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