Friday, March 23, 2007
Autumn
So once again I sit heartbroken. The pieces of my heart tumble down like the leaves of the season and all I can do is watch them settle quietly around my feet. There is no more Adelaide.
There are no more bus trips.
There is no more beating heart as his brightly coloured shoes appear around a corner and no more private smile as he returns from the kitchen tasting of coffee and mornings.
There are no more songs for him to whisper, no more plans for us to make, no more nights apart to yearn in delighted sorrow and no more words for him to say to nudge the hands of the clock back to Before.
There is no more Adelaide.
There are no more bus trips.
There is no more beating heart as his brightly coloured shoes appear around a corner and no more private smile as he returns from the kitchen tasting of coffee and mornings.
There are no more songs for him to whisper, no more plans for us to make, no more nights apart to yearn in delighted sorrow and no more words for him to say to nudge the hands of the clock back to Before.
There is no more Adelaide.
Labels: Adelaide, heartbreak
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
The bus to Melbourne
He stood on Sunday night and folded his arms around my shoulders, and I realised that the next morning I had to go home. I don't know if he noticed my eyes as the abrupt mist took them over, or the air I forced into my lungs to stop the fog from condensing down my cheeks.
I never knew it was possible for such happiness and such sadness to sit with their shoulders touching so close to one another in a solitary moment.
The bus to Adelaide had seemed to stretch time so taught that once arrived it stopped and hovered, a breath held and suspended in the air. Now, with the next morning approaching, it let go and was rushing uncontrollably towards the seconds where we would be separated first by a bus window and then by seven hundred and twenty five kilometres of road.
At 7:15 on Monday morning we left his house. I didn't look one last time at the stacked and cluttered treasure in his bedroom where we had slept, or the couch where we had sat to watch a video, his head in my lap, or the kitchen where he swallowed cups of coffee half full with milk, or the stereo where he had played me a tiny collection of his favourite songs, singing along quietly to the choruses with his eyes closed. I didn't look because I already missed them too much.
At 7:45 on Monday morning we arrived at the bus station. A little late, yet I hadn't missed the bus. I think I was hoping I would. All of a sudden it was goodbye and as I let his arms press me to his chest I tried not to look at the colour of his eyes beneath his eyelashes, or the curl of his hair past his ears, or the shape of his teeth as he spoke. I tried not to look because I already missed them too much, but couldn't quite do it.
The bus left, and he waved, and I waved, and then I saw Melbourne.
I never knew it was possible for such happiness and such sadness to sit with their shoulders touching so close to one another in a solitary moment.
The bus to Adelaide had seemed to stretch time so taught that once arrived it stopped and hovered, a breath held and suspended in the air. Now, with the next morning approaching, it let go and was rushing uncontrollably towards the seconds where we would be separated first by a bus window and then by seven hundred and twenty five kilometres of road.
At 7:15 on Monday morning we left his house. I didn't look one last time at the stacked and cluttered treasure in his bedroom where we had slept, or the couch where we had sat to watch a video, his head in my lap, or the kitchen where he swallowed cups of coffee half full with milk, or the stereo where he had played me a tiny collection of his favourite songs, singing along quietly to the choruses with his eyes closed. I didn't look because I already missed them too much.
At 7:45 on Monday morning we arrived at the bus station. A little late, yet I hadn't missed the bus. I think I was hoping I would. All of a sudden it was goodbye and as I let his arms press me to his chest I tried not to look at the colour of his eyes beneath his eyelashes, or the curl of his hair past his ears, or the shape of his teeth as he spoke. I tried not to look because I already missed them too much, but couldn't quite do it.
The bus left, and he waved, and I waved, and then I saw Melbourne.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The bus to Adelaide
I've packed a bag and my guitar. Tonight I am not sleeping, just in case I don't wake up and miss the bus that leaves at 8am tomorrow morning. I've rolled my clothes inside my backpack to fit more in, and remembered my toothbrush. I think I packed too many pairs of socks, I know I packed too many pairs of shoes. I have much too much food for the trip that will find a new home in a rubbish bin somewhere between Melbourne and Adelaide, and I'm sure I've forgotten something important.
Waiting in Adelaide, at the bus stop at precisely 6:15pm, will be a boy whose face I have seen for no longer than ten hours. A boy whose lips may taste like limes or ice cream or breezes on a hot, dry day, I haven't found out yet. I am travelling for ten and a half hours to where a boy whose arms have been only fleetingly around my shoulders stands in his work uniform at exactly 6:15pm looking for my face in bus windows.
Never have I done anything more insane.
The butterflies that bred in my stomach as I booked the ticket have swelled to fill every limb of my body. The tiniest of them flutter at the tips of my fingers and toes, and the biggest turn somersaults inside my abdomen so violently that the walls of my stomach threaten to collapse in on themselves. My heart beats faster with every hour that slips lazily by. The clock seems to have slowed to hover just above a halt, and I wish it had gotten itself ready as quickly as I.
At 8:30am on Monday morning the weekend will have ended, and I will be watching his waving arm as he shrinks away until all I can see is in the distance is black road and white lines. Somehow I manage to miss him already, before I have even arrived. Somehow I manage to miss his kiss, before I have even tasted it. Somehow I manage to miss his mother, before I have even met her. And somehow I manage to miss his skin, before I have even felt it.
Never have I done anything more insane.
The bus to Adelaide leaves at 8am. There are still too many hours to go.
Waiting in Adelaide, at the bus stop at precisely 6:15pm, will be a boy whose face I have seen for no longer than ten hours. A boy whose lips may taste like limes or ice cream or breezes on a hot, dry day, I haven't found out yet. I am travelling for ten and a half hours to where a boy whose arms have been only fleetingly around my shoulders stands in his work uniform at exactly 6:15pm looking for my face in bus windows.
Never have I done anything more insane.
The butterflies that bred in my stomach as I booked the ticket have swelled to fill every limb of my body. The tiniest of them flutter at the tips of my fingers and toes, and the biggest turn somersaults inside my abdomen so violently that the walls of my stomach threaten to collapse in on themselves. My heart beats faster with every hour that slips lazily by. The clock seems to have slowed to hover just above a halt, and I wish it had gotten itself ready as quickly as I.
At 8:30am on Monday morning the weekend will have ended, and I will be watching his waving arm as he shrinks away until all I can see is in the distance is black road and white lines. Somehow I manage to miss him already, before I have even arrived. Somehow I manage to miss his kiss, before I have even tasted it. Somehow I manage to miss his mother, before I have even met her. And somehow I manage to miss his skin, before I have even felt it.
Never have I done anything more insane.
The bus to Adelaide leaves at 8am. There are still too many hours to go.