House On Fire

The night is cold

it drags remorselessly on into morning

while they shield themselves before a makeshift sun

She searches for words

hidden in the carpet

between the fibres, a patchwork of shades

unable to bring her eyes to meet his

And as she finds them, one by one

she says them more to herself

barely a whisper

shaping each syllable with her lips

sounding them out

tasting them with her tongue

the question she doesn't want to ask

lest it break the spell

"What are we doing?"

He exhales softly

a quiet, sharp sigh

like he'd been holding it all his life

In that quivering breath, she knows he's thinking

of all that she could mean

and if he hesitates

if he stumbles for a moment

on what this could become

he masks it poorly

in his way

and her thoughts sink ever lower

cursing silently this phrase she'd found

His fingers brush against her cheek

She feels his eyes

"Do you want to stay?"

She almost laughs of shock, to hear it aloud

so startled by the broken silence

His sweet ignorance

And, gratefully, she allows the words their rest

upon the carpet once more

losing themselves amongst the loops of the floor

Her eyes finally meet his

rising so slow and heavy

from such great ocean depths

Her nod is almost lost to him

so captured in her gaze

Shadows play across her face

a smile tugs imperceptibly at the corners of her mouth

Then, suddenly, it's gone

the moment betrayed

as he speaks again

"But that's not what you meant..."

The world at once becomes a smaller place

than times of old

cowering from these opened eyes

The map no longer has an edge (you cannot divide infinity)

it expands out

wraps around

until the corners meet

until we end where we began

unable to fall from the path

we cannot lose ourselves (in a moment, in a place)

and a bit more colour drains from the world

Knowing everything leaves no room

for where the magic dwells

flowering greater in the darkness

than could ever in the light

After an eternity she pulls away

She wants to lose herself

"Am I yours?"

Such desperate abandon

He wants to lose himself

But logic awakens somewhere

it grabs at the map

Don't stray from the path, it nags

the moral of a faerie tale

And he's sick of it

He takes her chin, so gently, between thumb and forefinger

and lifts her gaze once more

Lose yourself

something screams inside of him

in this moment

in this place

"Am I all yours?"

Fingers grope blindly for an edge

to pry apart

So they bathe in their madness

submerged amidst the ink of night

All other sounds seem distant

far off

drowning in this liquid black

and all he can hear is her breathing

Heavy

Primal

Calling, frantic, to his flesh

It passes through him, into him

and his heart

it shudders in release

Lips brush against his skin

her hair rolls over his hands

she buries her head into his chest

Her scent intoxicates

dragging him deeper

to the place where nothing else exists

The dream, aloud, would lose its power

Speech brings with it compromise

fantasy losing form

a spoiled colour of its life

or emotion of its passing

So too the moment

let it happen

or don't

But the words will be its end

and the words know it

They are elusive

in fear of themselves

and the wreckage they leave in their wake

Shadows play across the walls

crashing upon themselves in waves

this turbulent sea

that knocks their sun from its place in the sky

Then, suddenly, it's gone

a world built on memories

now broken things

the moment betrayed

The flame bleeds them of what was, and could have been

smoke billows in its place

Fingers feel grass prickling beneath

and search instead

the Other's embrace

that they've escaped the blaze

and it, too, escaped from them

An ocean now fills the distance they keep

measured only in inches

so close

and out of reach

no longer able to make that final leap

And it clears to him

amongst the ash

how tenuous they were

such fragile things

now twisted and charred at their feet

They wish the night could dowse this light

that urges magic's flight.

The fire blooms before them

it smoulders in places

and bursts forth anew

There are two of them here

at the end of the world

this boy and girl

who might be lovers

Once

soon

or never

but wanting

They sit together

yet apart

and see in themselves this burning dance

reflected in an orange glow

A silence

filled with all the things they'll never say.

Time Served On Other People's Couches...

Night, the woods in silhouette behind her, a girl, or rather, a woman dances slowly, enticingly. Her dress flows about her in the soft breeze, she breathes a wisp of fog into the cool Autumn air.

A face, out of focus, against a dark, yet somehow light background, turns away.

The woods again, now at the periphery of a vacant field; hands reach out to draw eyes back to her, she smiles mischievously and backs away to resume her dance.

A hand, shifting in and out of focus, moves over a chest, gripping on t-shirt above the heart (what is that beyond him?).

The girl, she stretches out her hands again, fingers flex, come closer, they say.

A hand rises out of the darkness,
Flowing.
Twisting.
Writhing.
In time to a music long since past,
Trying to recapture it on the air,
And choking on it in turn.
(Can you see the wallpaper?)

His hands in hers, she leads him in her dance, their shadows lurk amongst the trees, watching and imitating imperfectly. For a second the mischief doesn't reach her eyes, she appears almost sincere, and he drops his head in embarrassment. Their feet move in tandem: fast, slow, fast, slow, he tries to keep his eyes off her, but close as she is, wearing that smile, it seems impossible.
He looks down again, but instead of dirt, soil, and earth, there is beneath him an empty black
He jerks his foot, as it falls into the abyss, and takes him with it.

He jerks his foot, waking him, while his heart still beats to the feel of falling, threatening to burst from his chest though it feels caught in his throat. Still half asleep, he squirms uncomfortably and falls from his perch. He kisses the carpet within a second; this wakes him more fully. With now open eyes he surveys his surroundings, and cannot place where, specifically, he is, besides a lounge room, and the couch he'd made a bed of.
He stretches out, now feeling a need, and proceeds, once up, to search for the bathroom. As he walks the hall his eyes search the rooms on either side, and then he spies a familiar face sprawled across a bed. A minute smile flickers across his face, he lets out a small ("hmmph") laugh. He turns around to find the bathroom directly opposite.
Once done with his business, he takes in his appearance in the mirror, in particular close scrutiny is paid over imperfections. Sunken and red eyes, sallow cheeks, sickly white complexion. His clothes are slept-in, wrinkled, stained. He turns from the mirror now, he knows what to expect, for he's been here before. Maybe not this 'here', but the situation. It seems to follow him, or does he chase it? Sometimes it's difficult to say which is true, when the night before can't be called upon for reference. He doesn't so much mind when there's a certain point in his memory where all simply stops and he wakes up the next morning, but there are other times when he remembers sounds, snippets of conversation. It is these nights he finds most frustrating, like he'd tripped and pulled out the video cable on the television, like he's walking around with his eyes closed.
He wanders back into the lounge and lies back down on the couch. How many times has he found himself here, on a couch? How many more have yet to come? Sometimes he thinks he spends more nights on other people's couches than in his own bed. This is not to say he finds a couch more comfortable (though he'll admit, and even claim proudly, "the couch is my home") but rather it's a testament to his lifestyle. It's a testament to escapism. It's a testament to adaptability. And he finds it amusing that it no longer feels natural to sit on a couch, so if he sits, it's on the floor in front, leaning back against.
Is this him punishing himself, spending all this time aloft in the world, drifting between places? Or is it that he pushes his limits merely to see how far they'll bend before they break? He wakes up at a work-mate's, his mouth tastes of ash, and the odds are he'll have work shortly. He wakes up at Duncan's, he cannot find his pants, but at least there's a blanket here. He wakes up at his parents', by the beach, and jokes on the fact they have no other place for him when he visits. And here he is now, awoken on a couch unfamiliar but for the passed out form in the other room, and a single word pressing on his consciousness, half remembered from the night before: house-sitting.
These days he can fit at least three days in his backpack. The essentials are easy, a standard he has on call in the bag almost constantly: writing utensils (notebooks, pens, etc), iPod, a thick paperback, deoderant, and sunglasses. Clothes are rolled tight thereafter; it's surprising how much you can fit in this state, on average 3 shirts to 1 set of pants and jacket. Sometimes he'll pack a sleeping bag, for he owns one that compresses very well. Only at the end are the socks and jocks stuffed into any remaining spaces, a towel over the top if there's space (one can always be borrowed later if there isn't) and of course a plastic bag for laundry.
These days and nights between 'visits' home are a kind of purgatory, indeed there are times he's thought of home more as a storage shed; a place for all his shit, while his parents refer to it more as a hotel. Regardless, those days pass by in a blur, one blending into the other, each fundamentally the same, the morning spent in recovery, breakfast at noon, public transport to the next place to drop his bag, pre-drinks, go out, wake up on another couch. And when he finally finds himself back in his own bed, he'll wonder where the time went, he'll wonder what he's done, he'll wonder how much he's spent, he'll wonder how much he's eaten, he'll wonder what he's put off, what opportunities missed, what's building up... But though he wonder's all these things, he feels neither stress nor anxiety, no, that comes later, days or weeks away, wen over the smallest thing it'll all suddenly fill his mind once more, worrying pointlessly over this wasted youth; but for now he merely wonders, assessing the damage calmly, almost absently.
And then, worst of all, he'll wonder when he'll do it all again.