I think of the songs you take with you,
streets ringing silent and sheets growing cold.
To me, you are this city.
The hundred empty coffee cups in a long abandoned school,
Boarded up and rediscovered
by reckless youth liberal with technicolour words like
You are electricity,
Melbourne at witching hour when danger waits in the wings and the only thing I want to do is run.
Far enough away that I can be somewhere new, be someone new, be for one lonely hour or one lonely minute
not the festering wound I’ve prettied up and you’ve
You are the drink that pushes me across the dotted line,
the night come alive, the taste of strangers,
the cracked glass I split my lip on, swearing, left eye swollen with tears.
The sore I tongue at for days after, copper my constant companion,
the more addictive the more it hurts.
You are the empty ends of cigarettes and the pain I prayed away.
Lipstick kisses pressed into cheap napkins and then forgotten,
red and messy,
the only way you knew how to be.
You are the salt I chase from my skin with soap or foreign lips.
The whiskey sour mouth that I never have to pay for, the cities pulse beneath my feet as I make my way home.
Slow, irresistible, every crack in the pavement a snaking vein, each suburb a ventricle, the entire city an unearthed heart
but this is not a love letter.
You are another person’s perfect escape, perfect excuse, perfect self destruction and
you are not a good place for me to hide anymore.
This is how I say goodbye.
I wonder when my body will start to feel like home.