I can see your transformation,
the lead in your bones turning to marrow,
blood pumping as it did before,
colour floating to the surface,
your pupils narrowing,
focusing now,
hello again.

What more can I say
when the rhythmic nothings grow tired
and my throat dries and chokes
on the dust kicked up
as I march along a footpath
all too familiar.

Gravel and sand compressed
by the many measured steps taken before.

I sit at the foot of our bed,
waiting for prose
or a break in this stanza,
to put new meaning to my lips
so I can speak rainfall into existence
and wash away the gravel and sand
and sprout new ground cover
to grow over the tired footpath.

But my effort goes unrewarded
with only the footpath infront of me,
ready for my short-fallen words
to guide my steps.

I want to forget
just for a moment
the paths I frequent
and my habitual instincts
in order that I may
experience life
with newness
and wonder
once more
with you.

Beside you
in the dim glow
of trailing western light
chased by the warmth
of Day.

Beside you
I can’t help but smile
as is the case when I watch
the world get better with you
quite Frankly.

Beside you
I see daylight
and a soul built to love
as you sing your song
with the Robins.

Easier.
The word we use to describe
the life we want.
The life we need.

Easier.
Some days I doubt
in it’s existence.
But I hold on.

Easier.
Promises of the past world
that are my selfish escape.
A peaceful melancholy.

Easier.
How we want ourselves to be
in moments together.
Just a little bit.

Easier.

You
finally
breathing heavy
heartbeat climbing
open eyes closed tight
relief then pressure
pushing
pressure then relief
tight closed eyes open
climbing heartbeat
heavy breathing
finally
you.

How beautiful they are
the dandelions
and wildflowers
and clover
that have grown over
the bricks that line pathways
and the early-felled apples
and the timber garden boxes
that were built from scrap wood.

A monochrome quilt
tucks in the calm breeze,
while droplets take a moment
to rest on my window.

I am subdued in solace,
holding you close
as we listen to the wind
converse with the trees.

Heartache
for how long?
When will I allow myself
to move on from myself?
All is well and good
yet I can’t seem to see it.
It must be my glasses.

The worker trudges onward
towards uncertain outcomes
and morals unadopted
by those in higher places.

Our children tell me who you are
by the way they are.

No wonder I love them as much as I do.

It’s 12:16am
and all I have to show for it
are words I should’ve said to you
when you were awake.

I wish you could see yourself
the way your mirror does.
Waiting all day
just to catch a glimpse of you.

Our purpose exists
when we encourage it in others.

Remedy for weary bones.
Eyelids seal the tomb.
Softly float across the water.
Time is standing still.

There once was.
Once upon a time.
Beginnings.

Come, sit next to me,
tell me your story once more,
I want to know you.

I can see the new normal.
The one we’ve been chasing,
we’re getting so close,
it’s just up ahead.
As always.

Trying.
A word that means
as much
or as little
as you make of it.

Trying.
Never enough
it feels,
though it is.
But you’ll soon forget.

Trying.
A perpetual cycle
of tenacity,
then fear,
then despair.

Trying.
The times
we live in.
Me and you.
Trying.

There are purple stains
on a cedar door
somewhere only we know.
It’s not much,
but whenever I think of it
I can’t help but feel grateful
to have left that mark with you.

There are long forgotten memories
that I’ve whispered into bottles
and thrown into the waters
past the horizon.

I wait patiently by the shore
for them to wash up with the tide
so I can remember once more
where I come from.

A cherished moment
this life has offered me
is finding myself
completely unraveled
by you.

Step near
and see how others turn
to see you
and forget their own words
to make room for yours
and settle in comfort
knowing you’re here now.

Sitting solemn
waiting for words,
for breath.
Waiting too long.

Distance between
though we toil together.
Resetting for tomorrow,
and tomorrow’s tomorrow.

If life ever turns on us
and I forget your name,
remember that I see you.
Your joy is my sustain.

Brittle hands remind me
of empty football fields,
picnic tables with candles and roses,
pompous little yorkies,
laughing until we become ourselves,
embracing at the dawn of the new year,
dreaming up the lives we could live,
big conversations on small apartment furniture,
Paper Planes by M.I.A.,
crooked gravel driveways,
vacuuming carpet stairs,
fried chicken and waffles,
fanning towels at the kitchen smoke alarm,
nearly dropping a piano down a flight of stairs,
listening to you play piano from downstairs,
picking out a rocking chair,
picking out names,
building a crib,
nights we spent on a mattress in the living room,
nights we finally spent asleep together,
filling boxes with things we forgot we had,
placing boxes somewhere they’d never been,
waking up to birds chirping,
falling asleep to engines revving,
painting rooms,
for the third time,
laughing,
crying,
hoping,
praying.

Brittle hands remind me of how wonderful my life is.

Waves crash, then calm.
Caverns of cobalt and ash.
I’m in repose
exploring your eyes.

You sat on the floor and unfolded the pages
discovering truth,
fiction,
wishful thinking.
You revised what didn’t work,
kept what carried the story forward,
hoping the next draft would be more coherent.
For your own sake.
A tiring job.

These days feel much like a relay.
Me and you
passing the baton from one to the other.
One more lap we run, then repeat.
Only passing moments do we get together,
but my hand waits for yours
to pass the baton again.

I am jealous of your co-workers
getting to spend the better part of their day with you.
The better part of their day.