An empty pub is the worst place to be,
In a city, Where even gods stay a bit longer every year,
Perhaps persuaded by the halcyon laughter of that half dressed street urchin,
Who has learnt to celebrate her comical existence,
In the pregnant underbelly of a false saint,
Who refuses to give birth to anything but naked poverty.

Small wonder the gods have never chosen to intervene in the city of joy,
After all its the fault of these urchins  who refuse to abandon their filthy smiles,
And have the audacity to peak through the walls that we annually paint,
With the victorious colours of human values.

But why do they peek,
Isn't their world filled with the unmatched profoundness of black and white photography?
Isn't their world the home to poetic muses and romantic poverty ?
Indeed, why do they peek ?
Before the label on the bottle in front of me,
Makes you judge the potency of what I utter,
Let me tell you why.

For them our world is a constant theatrical which has run different shows annually,
Yet the only complaint they have perhaps is that the genre of the shows,
Have somehow never changed.

Its always been the darkest of satires,
Like the running satire in which half our society,
Sitting safe within the beautiful walls ,
We built around our indomitable prosperity and culture ,
Indulges,
In the hysterical condemnation of a man,
Who wants to build a beautiful wall on a different continent .
To protect the same

You know, I don't speak urchin-tongue,
But I have always had the gift to read feelings I shouldn’t,
And something tells me the urchins have titled this theatrical,
“Moral *******”.

But that’s not all,
An empty pub is the worst place to be in a city which refuses to let you give up hope,
And gently reminds you with every drink
That even when the rest of the world is out there dancing,
To the drum beats of happy endings and ephemeral farewells,
There’s one place that will never close its doors on you.

The only thing is.
The place isn’t the home you never ended up building with her,
It’s just an empty pub.

And that is why an empty pub is the worst place to be.

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.

In empty airports, farewell to thee.
Farewell the clouds awaiting forever,
As a blushing skyline is wasted, on
Concrete cracked with dreams of poets.

On empty parchments, farewell to thee
Farewell the quills dipped in open wounds,
As hopeful mornings are wasted, on
Neck-scarves scarred with cigarette stubs.

From empty mansions, farewell to thee
Farewell the bricks of sweat crusted crumbs,
As the shining glasses are wasted, on
Men blinded with acid burns.

But,

From bursting heartbeats, welcome to thee,
Welcome the branches of the jasmine's smile,
As the three paragraphs above will be wasted, on
Love smiling at the cusp of dusk.

When the ship was about to sink (heavy with its own weight as the legend goes) the captain’s sweetheart asked him :

“ Don’t you ache from all you carry ? It could be so much lighter, so much easier ”

And the man replied,

I could tell you I want to be the everyday air that inhabits you for a moment
only because I want to be that unnoticed and that necessary,
Or I could tell you what I really want to say,
Which is that I love you

But If I told you I loved you,

Would you remember me through the summer haze of your sea-kissed city,
And look for me in the reflections of your effortless smile,
When time stopped occasionally on stormy nights,
To let in the dreams scattered through our broken windows of - “what if”

Would you run with me in empty alleys,
Paved with improbable bricks of surreal happiness ,
And leave your hurried footprints like a shower of kisses,
Even if the city lights played jealous gods,
To the mirthless mornings of separated worlds.

Would you dance with me on the edges of changing shorelines,
Where the recurring waves match the music of our heartbeats,
And the sands shifting below our feet,
Become invisible like the ghosts of unexplored pleasure,
While my promises of tomorrow merge into your twilight of today.

If I told you I loved you,
Would it even make a difference to the songs you will sing for your eventual lover ?

I was hoping it would.

You’re the summer breeze in the city of skyscraper love,
Where teardrops have always needed pearls to shine,
And You,
To bring back their smile.

You’re the lipstick stain on your city’s memories,
A teasing reminder not of what’s gone and past,
But of what’s yet to bloom.

You’re the last sip of expensive wine on christmas eve,
Filled to the brim of newfound happiness,
So that it lingers in your senses,
Till the sun rises in protest.

You’re all this and so much more,
A maiden of march on summer’s shore.
Yet I heard the season’s gossip yesterday,
Whilst I bet on how you will conquer,
Your dreams today

Denial was a predator,
And i, a willing prey.

The bubble of yellow roses,
Often surrounds the red ones thick,
But remains forever immune,
Perhaps even distant,
From the ****** of harsh reality.

Yet I have come to relish this bubble,
Like the Bedouin relishes the occasional muddy oasis,
Like the vanquished relishes the taste,
Of victory in defeat.

Denial was a predator,
And i, a willing prey.

I know you have told me,
How the season reeks of different roses,
Like the fragrance of your marriage bed,
But for the most part the bubble protects me,
And makes me forever immune,
Perhaps even distant,
From the winds of harsh reality.

Denial is a predator
And i a willing prey,
No more.