eyes and mouth

we are collapsed and adjacent on a cafe floor, unconsciously engaged in suggestive proxemics. i can't describe exactly my reaction to the intersection of limbs wrists glances world-views pasts, but there's some comfort in the thought that at least we still have a spatial relationship. i'd almost forgotten what you looked like from here. your eyes eyes eyes eyes eyes mouth mouth mouth mouth jump out like in a dream or a word cloud; white on black verdana monsters of femenine attraction loom over and around the smaller clusters of doc martens summer strolls the arcade fire existentialism and smoking in parks while we were trashed smashed ripped, up all night tandem riding flying foxes and waiting impatiently for a vacancy on the gravity-powered spinning disc that was perpetually beset with heterosexual adolescents obviously lacking homes of their own in which to heavily pet. although, we were almost just as bad. our ratio of appreciation of playgrounds at night to interest in each other's bodies was something like a 40/60 split.

i still think about kissing you, even now, but am hyper-conscious of anachronism. it’s been months since sex picnics holidays lectures breakfasts where you noticed my never matching socks passive aggressivity dad jokes and jewelry making skillz. and i noticed your eyes mouth freckles shoulders photographs calm anarchy and biker calves that always guaranteed you were faster than me. you also had suspension on your front forks, while the chain of my appropriated teenage vehicle had accumulated garage rust – not unlike the unlikely promises we made to the outside world, which sat gathering dust in the recesses of adjourned friendships. we were so caught up with each other back then that everything on the periphery was practically imperceptible.

a guy with an eyebrow piercing black skinny jeans tired eyes and friendly cafe banter comes and takes our cups. you adjust your fringe from left to right justified and talk about uni. it sounds like you've really got it together, these days, with your creative aspirations and graduate attributes. right now i should say, "your graduate attriboots are made for walking." it would probably make you smile, at least. but instead i brood over the fact that somehow while i got high you got a higher education. more paper between us, i think, and brood a little more over the extreme paperiness of the last four years. "you’ll get your degree eventually," you say, like you can still read my mind, and i’d like to believe it.

we split the bill and walk outside. you walk with me down the street for about fifty metres to the bus stop, past op shops book shops benches hipsters buskers with dreadlocks and a Hare Krishna van. “we should do this again soon,” but we probably won’t. from the rear window of the bus i watch you shrink into the background of King street. the last things to vanish as i turn the corner are your eyes eyes eyes, and mouth.





EDIT: sorry kids who got multiple rss updates of this post, i wanted it to look pretty. blogger previews are NO GOOD.