Saturday, 16 November 2013


The city is on the turn. The city begins to shed its summer skin. Leaves fall from the trees and carpet the pavements and then secret dwarves come in the night and whisk them away, leaving everything naked. Leaving the world bare. The bones of trees are silent skeletons encouraging the night to tuck close to the day. They pull the blanket of darkness closer to their chins until all that is left is a small blink of daylight in the centre of the day. When I walk the streets I feel the city's sharp winter elbows. Juttings of frost in the hollows of my ribs.

Even though the city is outside and I am inside, we are able to communicate. I send the city folded missives printed on bright yellow flyers that I crumple and fling from my windows under the guise of falling leaves. Mine are weepy love letters declaring my body a checkered blanket, my heart a picnic basket packed with gentleman's relish and hot cross buns. Here, I tell the city, feast upon me. I am yours to devour. I want to be chewed up and swallowed by your streetlights.

I watch the streetlights halo in the first fingers of frost. This night is built of mist and the exhales of clouds rising from the water. We walk to the boat across the swaying decking and for a moment I know that I am holy. Everything above the water is swirling, the contradiction of the softness of haar with the hardness of teeth. By this I mean: the biting of the sharp, cold night. I walk through it, my body a prow that can cut the night like cake. Here in the city, everything is pure white frosting and I lick my fingers and laugh at the sweetness on my tongue.

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