In which corner of the square did we first meet?
The maybe's, the for sure's, the knowings,
Somehow I think you will find a way to keep them alive.
The b-boys were there tonight
Maybe we are the ones to add colour to their world,
A humdrum no-pause-for-lunch, dogged can-hardly-reply-you kind of place.
I remember that day
Familiar little figure, flash in the crowd
It seems strange now
That you should have been more easily found
When I needed you most
As is more often than not, not the case
And all these old thoughts come back like the cloak of a thief,
blotting out the benign moonlight.
Heckles up
Fighting for family
But you told me, it's me you told
And I would want you fighting for me
If we were family
The funny thing is no one here knows I love earrings, and love wearing them.
The funny thing is stuff do add definition to a person, yet there is so much definition left without them.
I felt, and still feel fine being without my earrings - but it would be nice to be known in completion.
Traipsing down the Basser Steps
All by my ownty-downty self
Through the chilly night air of spring
To my warm and cosy room
The basis is contentment, but it is something more than that. A
little like fulfilment, but not quite that. Like a cat curling up in its
basket - satisfaction.
When a thought holds you hostage:
Toothbrush clenched between teeth, foam on the side of the mouth - writing furiously
And these things, in speaking, become less of tragic secrets no one must know about; they become proof that human nature is more accepting, more knowing than we tend to give it credit for.
It's a bit of a curious relationship
When you've loved and lost, and loved again
So that's the difference between then and now. I grew used to
listening to the reasons I couldn't do what I ought to, want to, wish
to.
That's not you, Nicole. The one who ran the last 3.5km refusing to give up - is you.
So give me back my caprice, my mischief, my whimsical fancies
To the winds, they fly
And so do I
Wishing my way back into yesteryear
I never tire of Sydney's beauty, and wonder if I ever will.
Suddenly the vague strains of music or voices
filter through, to my heart, as the wispy sounds of azan do at dusk. A
birthling longing to hear it from my neighbourhood mosque is almost like
homesickness.
Lena with her lovely
sun-drenched locks
These flowers smell so sweet
As you did, love, as you did.
Some things are soft only
because they've been
broken in a
m i l l i o n p l a c e s .
