Dream of life.

I want to write about 

the sharp sigh of your asthma puffer                    evening light lending you an 

illuminated texture

like the down feathers of a quilted sleeping bag.           I want to write about 

the open window that kept me warm by

contrast between our muted street

and our respective doonas.                        I want to write about the self 

sufficient world that is your bed

                                    and lockable bedside drawer complete with coke cans 

candles and antiperspirant deodorant.

I smile when I see the old tequila shot glass full of cigarette butts, thinking of 

the time you said              'everything becomes an ashtray'                caught 

red handed ashing into a

quickly cooling bowl of porridge we had both

shied away from after burnt tongues and dry mouths.

I want to write about how you

still don't know how to use the dishwasher and

I will never tell you because

we are far too sensible and

creative to have a conversation

about household chores.                                           I want to write about our 

house and how we complain about it and

yet we seem to spend more time there than we care to admit, case in 

point myself as I write this en route to the tarn

when I should be in class

unable to avoid the gravitational pull

like the elastic snap-back of an umbilical cord, felt somewhere

behind my belly button and connected

to that mildew infested green couch on the veranda.

I want to come home and put on your jumper

and find a place to rest my feet

on the cup-strewn coffee table

tea in one hand cig in the other and hear about your day        How was work? 

How are your lungs? What did you eat, what did you like on Instagram?

                       I want to write about the lemongrass

and ginger tea

                      you made me

when I was sick and you said it hurt you when I coughed

cause we don't have grown ups taking care of us right now

so we gotta take care of each other you know.              I want to write about 

the way you know what I'm thinking sometimes, I want to write about the 

way we relate the feeling 

of waking up

                        in the evening 

                                               to Edvard Munch's

                                                                        Scream

all open doors and dark

the naked window exposing the ugly sky.                     I want to write about 

                     all the skies we've seen

weight safely on the beams

of the corrugated iron roof, teacups tucked       

between knees and clouds

of smoke drifting like ghosts across the trees,                 I want to write about 

the clarity of dawn breaking.

And the beautiful music 

                                      of the garbage truck.