21
Aug
11

Ballarat

Ballarat

We’d driven for three hours, to find the town deep etched in rain
wipers ticking like a metronome as we sat idling, keeping time
for stretched silences as cold became a private metaphor for two
and when word breath cracked the new air to brittle, a whole moment
collapsed, like the way dripping hair reminded us of warmer skin and
the times when we sought each other out, like cold hands and an
open fireplace, so when you brought me lemon meringue pie and a
new space to love, blame slipped away like sibilance, slow under the door

© Vanessa Page 2011

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