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I wasn’t happy at first, but what’s that worth, anyway?
Warm twilight, the curtain pillowed like a white Rococo gown inhaling summer breath
Collapsed in sunbeams someplace time, stretching endlessly outward, felt restful, warm and sweet.
The pale young women wore dark clothes and black piercings. Patient and lethargic, they moved along the security line rolling absent stares like suitcases.
Sydney is like an overly ripe fruit: sweet, hot, sticky, and slightly overwhelming.
It’s a 36-degree Tuesday in Perth, February 2020, ideal conditions for sipping a $7 iced oat latte from a mushy paper straw and lamenting seemingly urgent life decisions.
The inside of this living room looks exactly like I imagined it – a terrace house seeded with abandoned cigarettes inside terracotta mosquito pools.
Another empty weekend for an unconcerned 11-year-old. A whole house of one’s own, spent staring blankly out the kitchen window while I’d write my little poetry.
One day I’ll forget all this, so that is why I write.