I caught fleeting glimpse
of her throughout the day,
She lingered by the water's edge,
with another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared brazen attitudes to the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped that viscous liqueur,
It's contents  not as dark as her charcoal hair.
By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided, we drank
and wandered among the intoxicated.

Then the guards came
and chased us all away.

A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter.
Tides of people made it hard to get around. Deftly,
I waded through the massive crowd
to find friendly revelers in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in our favourite pub,
She resurfaced, megaphone still going,

Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter in a tome of conquests.

Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.

One, two, three, four, five, six.
Six fireflies were in my jar.
Smiling, I ran to the arch.

I told him, "The bugs will make you happy."
The arch didn't move.
I tilted my head.
"Stupid arch, be happy."
The arch still didn't move.
I stomped my foot in rage.

"Be happy!"
I looked down and saw some pretty flowers.
I picked them up and threw them at the arch.
"Arch, please be happy."
Arch, please move.

Please, please be happy.

I knelt down and sobbed.

My life was never the same since the fall.
I lost everything.
My house, my parents, my friends.
Now this arch is all I have.

And even then, I don't think it'll be enough.

The gray arch stayed, broken
It could not survive the fall
Now it's here; in ruin
If only I could've saved it.

I've seen this arch a thousand times
Been here before I was born
Civilization loved the arch
But now, they're gone.

I did not know where they went
I hope it was somewhere nice.

Wildflowers grew near the arch
Yellow, orange and green
I picked them up; then dropped them
Now's not the time for flowers, I thought
Then walked away.

The fall was devastating
I did not know what happened, but
Destruction lay in its wake.

And desolation was born.

Look, the blue sky arch
is up until now
an upside-down cup!
The juicy bit, for sure,
is down on the veiled earth.

There was left a gap
that the heaven
did not touch.

The arch codebreaker
hacked in only to find
it's on the face of the earth.
That did the art.

The gap the Golden Cut
is above the rest
is neither in the heaven
nor is here on earth!
Where is it tucked away?

If only one can tell
it's still a ******
still a pure blank.

I love the arch of your back
It is a golden archway of light
The bridgeway to Heaven,
If Heaven could even compare

On the lookout for a leeway
I'd cross that bridge in a blink
As love surpasses blasphemy
And my feelings for you surpass love

where it
made me
that tried
her and
mattered in
court that
toiled with
ritual today
where drama
drawn there
was righteous
in the
moment of
essay when
a decision
to liaison
the archer

Look, the blue sky arch
is up until now
an upside-down cup.
The juicy bit, for sure,
is down on the veiled earth!

The intimacy of a naked skyline had always been a bit too much for the girl who had grown up tracing her thoughts on the moist windows of skyscrapers that tore through the emptiness  of open skies and lonely hearts. The city would always be her first lover, the sea winds her first kiss, and the inhuman slums her first heartbreak - this wasn't your ordinary girl.

The arch of the Sydney harbour bridge reminds me of how her back arched the first time I kissed her neck and the horizon melted right in front of my eyes. The bridge's arch might be a testament to human civilization, but hers is the reason why you can someday justify the pain of your first heartbreak to your daughter as she breaks down before her high school prom. The  bridge's arch might stand tall against the trials of time, but hers is the reason why you will see your past flicker in the flames fanned on every bonfire night.

But before you fall in love with the arch and wish bridges could heal all distances, you need to know there are some that even the best and the most beautiful can't.

You know, sitting on the docks of Port Jackson reminds me how I was born in the small port town of an insignificant island and I had grown up with more sand in my slippers than tongue in my cheek. Everytime you swing your legs from the edges of the dock to feel the spray of the recurring waves on your naked calves, the waves seem to sing about how they taught me never to give up on a shoreline, no matter how close or distant its breath on your face.

Its funny how I never ended up finding that Italian place by the harbour where I taught you how to soak in the flavour of a single malt scotch while you taught me how to soak in the flavour of life. Its funny because you always wanted me to find us that spot, in case we wanted to relive the mistakes we made that night.
But then I guess,
There are some mistakes, you are not allowed to make twice.

The sun setting on the city still looks beautiful from the edges of the harbour each day,
But it makes me wish we had stayed behind long enough to see the sun rise from underneath the sea.