submerged
in water
inside our
vase; i'm
floating
underneath
white lilies.
stems
intertwined
with my hair.
eyelashes
against my
walls
— you.
dim,
quiet,
meditative
— you
are in the
apartment.
wet fingertips
on glass;
i draw
the shape
of your eye.
randomness.
you smile;
draw my
nose, give
it a base,
an open top
and turn it
into a vase.
i laugh.
infinite
bubbles
rumbling
upwards.
then,
quiet
distance.
b­linking.
sounds
of the
refrigerator.

soft daylight.
behind my
eyelids it's
pink, and
white, yellow
sparkles;
maybe
lights
coming on
and off,
over
and
over
again.
a small
abstract
world.
eyes
closed.
i'm here.

sweetlove,
you're lovely
when you sleep
— here, in
a sunless
morning;
your chest
rising and
falling.
shoulders;
outlined in
lamplight.
quietly, in
your ear
i whisper
random words
— call it poetry.
i want you
to wake up.
watch you
softly,
slowly
put on
your
cotton shirt.
toes
touching
the cold floors.
i want to
make us
warm coffee,
and ask you
to read
something
from a book.
put my leg
against your leg,
my cup
next to
your cup,
my nose
to
your nose —
close.
close.
close,
watching
our sleeps
swirl together;
pupils
dilate
behind
our
eyelids.
i want
to talk
about our
backs,
and hair
and fingers
and necks
and thighs.
lean against
a wall,
as the
sun
from
the window,
slowly,
turns us
pink,
like
your brain,
like
my tongue,
like
the insides
of your
mouth,
like
my
collarbone,
like
your
beating
heart,
like
my
­lower
lip

like

i can't think.
wake up.

almost always
sitting, we
hunched over
the table and
made paper
boats,
made cake
and milk tea,
made slow
dances
out of
matchsticks
on cardboard
dance floors,
made dusty-star
constellations.
moving upwards
now, i have
walked past it.
a small
and dusty,
wooden
thing. holding
nothing but
imaginary
old paper,
stained cups
and cardboard.
as i move
onwards
we are slowly
disappearing
into thin air.
one step;
the last of our
laughter is gone.
another step;
your hair has
escaped from
between
my fingers
and lost colour
and shape.
our desks are gone.
the sink, the stars
the spotted cat
holding its breath,
watching the bird in
our kitchen garden
— dissolved.
up,
up,
up,
in the
vastness
of the view
from up here,
i see
emptiness.
quiet,
whistling
wind.
breath.
bird.
trees.
oh.
th­ank
goodness.

early dawn,
today,
there was a
chemical reaction
in the sky.
the stars dimmed
and swirled
around with the air,
and gravity,
and invisible
dispersed light;
instead of the sun,
it made a moon.
a morning moon
in a morning sky —
an extraordinary
detail on a
normal day,
when everyone
slept in a little
longer. and
the birds quietly
dusted the dew
off their wings.
i stood
at the balcony;
toothpaste breath,
achy bones;
in this little
otherworldly
mistake
of light,
wondering
if everything
is always a little
made-up.
if all truth i know
is a bit of a lie.
that this entire
reality
is actually
imagination.
wondering
if i should
wake someone up
to show them
this magic.
wondering
if this will
all go away
the moment
i choose to
tell somebody.

the green-ness
of a grasshopper,
sleep-turns of a
hibiscus at dawn,
soft humming
of the wind outside
a closed glass window
— went unnoticed today.
quietly, as the day
settled upon a
simmering turmoil,
the soap washed off
a ceramic cup
just perfectly.
cold feet
were warmed
inside a madness
of bedsheets,
blankets and duvets.
a favourite song
was made.
hair dried
flawlessly.
two people
fell asleep after
a long, long night.
a baby cow
took its first
baby breath.
the sparkle
of orange,
blue fish
underneath
clear water
in the
afternoon sun,
big shadow at
the damp roots
of a broad tree,
an old lady's
sweet laughter
at the television
— went unnoticed today.
slowly, as the day
bubbled into a hot
and cold mess,
hungry people
had their food.
a new leaf
bloomed on
a houseplant.
a notebook
was completely filled.
i wrote a small poem.

tilting a ceramic cup of tea towards the sun, i imagine all the teas we have had together. many mornings of waking up early; sitting in the quiet sounds of a television before the storm. the afternoon we made cake for the first time — checking on it over and over again, and still burning it a little — i made tea while we waited. for many years you sang songs in the evening, and stopped completely in the last few. with spiced fruit and laughter at the small garden, and then in the stillness of a purple sky when you stopped speaking to me with love, finally — we had tea. a ritual repeated over and over, it gave us something to hold onto when a home was crumbling around us. in moments of joy you called me daughter, and other times you didn't. and somewhere between that; and between the balcony and the table, stillness and chaos, sanity and paranoia, home and hell — we had glimpses of normal. food and small talk. news about the neighbours. sweet yoghurt. the bird we rescued from the bottom of a tall tree. crisp shirts that came back from the dry-cleaners. the flowers you embroidered on handkerchiefs. and tea. in the quiet, and while people spoke on the low-volume television, we sat down and finished our cups.

here, as the sunlight paints the ceramic golden, some of these days and parts of us have wilted in our old garden and decayed into an ugly-marvellous disappearance. here with my tea today, years later, i have grown a new leaf.