looking at the world through fuzzy eyes in the sun, my sun, the air reminds me of old dreams, slightly rusted with an aged hint of love hanging on them but no longer the real texture of it. creases appear suddenly, and it's best not to be ashamed. the evening breeze feels like an empty promise, but i still hang on to it and let it carry me into the dark, like a dandelion parachute, twisting and twirling and wished upon. i remember when missing the awe and the warmth was innocent; now the evenings and mornings and days shred themselves into small, golden, glistening, sharp shards ready to rain upon the memory - and i look for silence in the laboured breathing. search for explosions, as i always do, an obsession to find the ones that go unnoticed, that get drowned out in the city. the city lights peaceful and lonely and beautiful these days. & then a familiar song comes on and pulls at you, like a child that cant sleep because of the thunder outside, and you turn around and embrace it; it doesnt matter how pretty or how worn out the face you associate with it... in the end, hope. how much has the sun see me move under this skin, but the sunset behind the church always winks with a painting on the sky. a reminder - life is extraordinary, he said

moments worth capturing: sinking into the indian ocean under the milky way, contemplating sails & watching fires explode in the sky; each one of them heavy with a story; all of them stories to take out of the year & burn in glory. feelings of completeness come at you suddenly, & it's hard not to drown in them. how powerful that is. a weakness so violent it ties you to your bed in the morning. i keep stretching my hands and feet into the night sky so my heart can get the blood back & pump some more into its own beat.
what i mean is; sometimes lying in the dark can hurt people. in the end we are all bewitched angels huffing and puffing under a glorious sun - what i mean is; let skin ruin skin the way a summer breeze can touch it. moments worth living: the explosions only i can hear, & the reflections of the fireworks in your cold shudder. & here i am falling asleep with the geckos, watching them slide across the wall into my dreams.

sunlight declares a peace it doesn't possess, drenching the world in quiet; quiet like your eyes when they turned into the night. people show their true selves in the words they use on sundays, after all the friday night smiles have been washed out & what remains is anxiety or tenderness, & the soft rustle of red & yellow leaves on the ground, hushing the wind to keep your secrets from me. the air is cold and fresh now, and holds no promises, but the shivers within get a break to recover from days with teeth. we are all shivering on different wavelengths, sometimes louder, sometimes darker, but drenched in this sunlight full of wisdom. burning our faces as if to tell us about the past, tell us about those moments we've fallen from since, the home feelings of morning embraces and the fires within you i never get to see. the fires that break into sweat at this point where hot becomes cold, and all throw up their hands as the beat kicks in.

finally a halt, after mad, noisy rushes watching learners cross pens and lips in an attempt to pull something pretty out of the world in passing. your desert boots are not made for kicking anyone, so you climb up walls instead, and split them open to let in the autumn air and dead leaves. cover yourself in them, and let the music wash over you, the music you don't hear but feel for the spaces it creates, spaces you can breathe in. your eyes blinded by two cigarette butts from that night you shouted out your darkness into the sky but the wind kept throwing it back at you. it's fine now; time to take every spark in the spaces between us as just what it is, & revel in it, with a mind ready to explode in a friendly flare you send into the world for someone to wish upon

coming home late at night in a hot daze and crashing on the sofa blasting the naked and famous, it's just me and my heartbeat and the night and the sky is beautiful. something about the softness of the night makes me stay awake in a haze, i could write into dawn. life is a series of soft and hard textures; here it is soft, like the shy breeze that walks over my skin and pulls a wave through the leaves. somewhere in the world it's daylight, your daylight, always different from mine which is hushed and hustling and thick in the sun, and my hands hold on to each other in an energy to decipher whether what i felt in my fingers last night was your fingers or your buzz. i still skip down my road and stumble into my hallway to lie on the floor in a constant search for faces; for one to stare back at me the way that my skin stares into the night