You're made of light.
Light so bright the night will send you away to play with day.

I was driving down Mounts Bay Road to uni, listening to Kurt Cobain's grey husky voice over the radio, when in front of me there was a ute with a cage on the back of it, holding six or seven sheep, travelling the speed limit. Liquid brown eyes, unsteady feet from the bumps in the road and the meandering turns. They looked bewildered and unsure of ( Read more... )

I want to watch you dress in the morning. The shirts lined up in the wardrobe, blue on Thursdays since you were a child. Shaving at the sink bare-chested as the water turns foamy and you ask if I'd like a cappuccino. I dry your face with a towel then breathe the soapy smell of your jaw. The hairs at the base of your throat are curled up against ( Read more... )

and so
three years of
student cards - unit numbers - common lunch hours
ends as simply as putting your pen down
when they tell you to

The number eight has the least weight of all the numbers. One is single, two is company, three's a crowd, four is everywhere, five is halfway, six is evil, seven is heavenly, nine is almost ten, and ten is ten. But eight? Handwritten on its side, it stands as a glorious infinity. Yet poor eight seems to be the outsider, I know not why ( Read more... )

They were so quiet I never knew they moved in. In passing one afternoon, mum told me we had new next-door neighbours. A beautiful young couple engaged and very much in love, the girl being the daughter of our other neighbours. I never saw her. The boy I saw once or twice from my loungeroom window. They kept to themselves ( Read more... )

quirky - erratic - defiant ( Read more... )

I love it how in the summer people catching the train back from the beach have medium-pink skin. The way their ankles are still lightly dusted with fine white sand because that's the place everybody overlooks. Mussed hair, tossed by salty breezes and garnished with wayward sunscreen. Backpacks bulging with bags of potato chips and frozen bottles of ( Read more... )

I remember when we'll get a house together. The one with the shingles falling off the roof, and you'll call it poetic and I'll call it delightful, and we'll collapse along with the fading white veranda. You glued the halves of the broken flowerpot because you wholeheartedly ( Read more... )