outside the window, a cool space

the breeze blowing the leaves

like the space between us

the fold in the fabric

the crease on the page

the lines of you palm

your breath on my shoulder

the sound of your voice

the sight of your face

the beginning of an endless thought

of what happens between us

and how our history shapes us

in the fold, something obvious

easily seen but not easily known

an impenetrable nexus

absolutely unlike a blank slate

I stare at the lines of your palm

at the language I don’t know

I bring a whole world and its history

all my silences and monologues

forgotten languages, generations of stories

apparatus to understand you with

files and files of glances, movements, expressions

ways of being, ways of looking

serious person, happy person, modest person

unhappy person, person-in-need, independent person

and moments when expression breaks out

in the fold, things are safe

the sound of your voice, your breath, is soothing

relieving, animating

even before speaking there’s intimacy

the sight of your face, the way you walk

the way your fingers gently fold across your palm

in the face of danger things go quiet

our faces become impenetrable

we wait for the storm to pass

we live in two worlds, one

where politeness dictates that I say your name

the other, where I never say your name

I say hello and nothing else

to name you is to step away

to be overt is to step away

we’re conspirators in silence

keeping our bonds hidden

so they can’t be crushed

the winter air folds over us

our breaths fog up the windows

inside and outside become separate

each moment which passes is vital

every gesture is laden with beginnings

the germs, the seeds of the future

these periods like hibernation

retreating to some core experience

some safety

I remember those dark pine trees

black and vivid now

as in childhood

dark places in the town

like the site of a mishap

embodying all the past tragedies

the unrecognized endeavours

the acts of selflessness

the heroic acts

everything swept aside and away

by the anglo elite

submerging people like us

eliminating the differences

any disturbance or challenge

like cutting out our tongues

the city is different

it folds us in

opens up a space to rest

the harbour breathes us in

we exhale into the glow of the city lights

in the night sky

the stars are faint

like a reflection of the reflection

of the city lights in the harbour

swing back from dark to light

open up the windows and shout into the street

this relief

out of the fold and into the world

take up the pen and the brush

prepare a clean sheet

one sweeping brushstroke

the ink, the water

bleeds into the paper

the tip, the side of the brush

follows your arm

the line of your jaw

it traces your poise

makes you suddenly

just like real life

is this you is this me

am I looking at or looking for

and what is your appearance

the line for your voice

the shape bleeding slightly

showing music or pitch

waves breaking slowly in the night

moving from within

rising and falling, over and over

a slow release and a long search

like finding a hill and leaving a valley

travelling through light years of feeling

unfolding, folding back

Surry Hills, Redfern

Waterloo, Moore Park

Darlinghurst, Woolloomooloo

Crown Street

the backbone of my life

Central Station

Those years we shared that space

it wasn’t just geography

our lives were softly colliding