With the sun rising earlier at this time of year, and walking straight into clear, bright hours, it feels as though the day is born earlier. It's alive by 6.30am. Everything is beautiful, everything is energized. There's no slog; even if there is a slog within myself from those dusky hours the night before, the sun will grab me by my bedclothes and hurl me up towards it. Less sleep is fine because there are less hours of darkness. The world and I are being birthed into activity and we are thriving. 

stile

Unexpectedly, you walked into my ungodly nightmare. You lurched me from the haunted table at which I was sitting - an abrupt upheaval back into 4am Earth. You gripped me at the shoulders and said, urgently, "Get out now."

I woke with true anxiety. Cast in the moon's sheets, I tried to stay conscious. I kept slipping back to that dangerous place, numerous times, each time being startled alive again by your warning. I felt straddled between two worlds.

I gripped rocks into my body. I shone some artificial light into my cornea because I've heard that tells your brain to stay awake. It was 4am and it was dark. I thought, 'The sun will rise in two hours. That's a long time to stay awake.' No-one was home. I remembered when I was young and some unknown sight was shaking my bed from its end. I spoke into the darkness: "You're not welcome here. You do not have permission to be here. Please leave, now."

I think it left. Not for good. But away.

You also left.

When I woke with the sun, all the details had dripped out of me. Or maybe, the moon had siphoned them out as it lowered itself past the horizon. I had a shell of where I'd been sitting at the base of my skull but not much more. Though I could see your face, gripping mine with its sight and feeding its words into my ears.

juni

I really do hope we
fallintoeachother,
somehow,
kind of settle into the edges of each other
and float about the earth's surface,

that would be
nice

take our tickets and
run
not to be away
but
to get to, to find
the world
and be found in it

I'd like to thread myself through you - I already
feel
the spike of your being
in my fingertips, non-urgent
with the patient clarity
of certainty

there's something in the smell of you
that will be found in me
regardless
of whether time follows
us
or not
that even if I were
to enfold myself in another
you'd be within them.

goddess nostalgia

I'm so deaf

from the ringing

and I'm wringing you out

in all of fifteen minutes (you've promised)

and yeah I'll

go 

back in time

for the sake of nostalgia (who

wouldn't do 

that)

and I can't wait to to find my body again

it's been inches away from me

all this time

hiding in the hollows 

of myself

teaching me lessons

knowing me intimately
as I've

known any other

and yes it's a small world

small city

small town

small life, so I need to

know every human - since I know them already
(small world) - 

while I've
youth on my side

she's the most powerful
I know 

and I love her

more than I love them

more than I've loved anyone 

or even

myself

and therefore

can only

love myself

through knowing

goddess nostalgia

future nostalgia

The full moon reminds me of howling through your sheets. It's draped over me like the train of some ornate, luxurious dress - and indeed I did luxuriate in the moonlight of you: Intermittent intensity bearing a metallic cobalt hue. I liked our brevity; the pocketedness of our meetings. Little capsules of time that had space to breathe between them, whilst all-encompassing in and of themselves.

The moon bled a soft burgundy warning over your face. Dampening the blue. A last waning, I somehow knew. You were beautiful enough for me to be content with your brief appearance.

There's a little part of you still residing in me. I'm sure. It smells like summer at the fading end of summer. It looks like persistent winter tan lines ridiculous enough to be churned into "cute". It loiters in the park, marvelling at the chlorella earth and azure sky. It has the face of Anakiwa in a record-cold August. It grabs onto youth with innocuously venomous fingertips and taps itself against the floorboards of basement buildings. It anticipates a future of rushing lungs and twisted heartbeats; that December rain-earth smell and nights with the covers kicked off.

I wish my whole life could be made of these moments. I'd be satisfied without continuity. I'd have the constant of change to hold me down, to ground me into the ground, to anchor the weight of stability into me.