if you held my hand long enough, would you feel it?
not the gesture – the motion.
the autumn afternoon,
the pastel lips,
the basket of oranges,
the vegemite sandwiches gone mouldy from yesterday’s lunch.
this is mount canobolas,
an ash ridden hideout.
a cordon sanitaire of frightful birds,
and unhealthy obsessions
covered in sand.
i brush my fingertips through your hair,
but the coarseness blisters my index finger.
and it stings like yesterday’s dinner.
your tone is acerbic,
i crave it.
like half eaten oranges
this is what i find most attractive about my women.
but let me down easy my love,
the idyll vignette is better left unsaid.
if you let the moments breathe,
you risk starting again.
and i don’t want to burn.