The worn, russet couch opens its maw
and swallows me whole. With a cool embrace,
the scent of old leather finds a chink in my armour.
A vision of you sneaks in. Tanned legs barely covered
by denim cut-offs wake buttermilk thoughts
of caramel ice and sunshine.
Cicada-song jolts sleep from the room. I wake
to twilight's warm, mottled hues.
Time
moves
slowly,
my skin breathes out.
Freshly-cut lawn flavours scant breeze
creeping past the fly screen to tickle my mind.
In the depths of the couch, my sleeping back
has unwittingly found your old sketchbook.
Lazy river Sundays seep from pages as dry as memories.
Moments and scenes captured in charcoal-scratched stasis,
your hand always as sure as your eye. A pressed-flower fallen
from our Red River Gum lies caught between pages.
I slam the book shut and it slides away.
You would have smiled to see
You would have smiled to see
how deeply the paper cut.
Ryan Stone
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