I spend a lot of time lost in my own mind, with you trapped so tightly beneath my skin that it feels like we are connected on an intangible level.
Two puppets; bound by invisible intersecting strings.
Even after all of this time.
21 months.
639 days.
And counting.
I cannot escape those invisible ties that bind.
I consider how I would spent just 24 hours - if they were gifted to us. If the past hadn't happened and the future weren't uncertain.
A perfect day.
A simple day.
I would wake before dawn and just look at your form; prone, sleeping, breathing lightly. Twisted into me.
I would kiss your forehead and you would grimace the way that you often did whilst sleeping. When you finally woke we would laugh about it.
'I kissed you and you scrunched up your face like this' a perfect parody of your pre-waking disdain -
and you would say
'I didn't mean it.'
You would promise to wake up in just five more minutes... That would stretch to ten minutes or an hour.
I would force you from bed far too early for your liking, but on this fictional day, you would not protest too much.
We would sip coffee on the deck, blowing clouds of nicotine smoke skywards.
We would make plans to be productive, to be adult and grown up, knowing that these things would never seem to happen.
Instead, I would make you take me to that hill.
We would climb to the zenith and look down on the blanket of the city and pretend that the world was ours.
It once was.
I would drink a beer, although it was too early
And we would share your hand rolled cigarettes. We would not talk too much because we would not need to. And I'd coax you into competition to see who could find the most interesting thing. We would see kangaroos, the best koala sighting would herald the winner.
The weather would be grey; grey skies and grey trees and grey green grass punctuated by sharp red paths. I would argue that the koala I found was much bigger than the one that you saw and you would let me win.
And then we would go and sit under the tracks, reclining back to the thunder of buses above us. We would smoke some more and you would guide me through the best of Pink Floyd.
'Stop.'
'Listen.'
'Wait'
You would eat a yellow iced donut from a paper bag sheer with grease. And I would lean against you, inhaling you and promising myself that I would
not
forget...
This moment.
The grass would make me itch.
The evening would be summer,
warm bodies,
warm earth.
And we would curl up on the couch in our assumed positions.
A tangle of limbs
With the dogs at our feet
And the cats on our laps
We would laugh at the same stupid things
My attention would waver - like it always did.
'I'm bored', I would say.
You would take me to the graveyard.
I'd trail past the lights, each sorry story and the fresh upturned dirt, to the dark recesses where we would sit with our old friend.
I would lay back against the cold black marble
And squint at you through the smoke. I would trace his name with my fingers.
And if I forgot to breathe,
You would hold me close and promise
That everything would be alright.
I would wander off alone,
To look at the oldest tombstones and you would watch from a distance and tell me I looked beautiful.
The panic would rise, bile in my throat as I know the day is ending, but it would be alright.
The strings holding us together would keep me tethered and safe.
We would return to the place we both called home
And under the high ceilings we would collapse into the always unmade bed.
To the sound of the traffic and the smell of bushfires.
Unlike reality, you would come to bed with me and you would hold me tight. I would fight sleep just to prolong those last short hours. I would clutch you to my chest
I would not let go.
I would appreciate every damned second.
Each little minute.
Each moment.
I would tattoo the memory of your smile on my mind.
I would record you laughing.
I would try to capture the exact colour of your eyes reflected against the grey skies, your pupils enlarged in the dark.
You would tell me that everything is going to be ok.
You would lie
And we both would believe it.
