To the fluffy hair man with perpetual hat hair
You do goofy in a way that makes me want to eat you
How do I describe you ?
You look at me out from beneath the Tinka porch with the mostest items stacked in and found home. A place for a painting with too much purple of the dunes lurking beside us amongst the sharp spinifex and Perenties. You have erected a clothes line with multiple hanging items and a work bench covered in various items. Your bicycle is proud with its red plastic carry crate occhy strapped to the back. You seem to have collected various items in all which manner going out into the common areas in ownership of a meandering property line moving beyond organically climbing like a feeling creeper. Somewhere plants are growing. Your main internal room similarly is an adornment which seems to have become half trade workshed, half bedroom, a mattress without sheet surrounded by a sleeping bag ? A yoga mat adorning the floor headed by leather work boots. One may find places for the odd footfall adjacent and haphazardly available amongst the flotsam and jetsam in a singing hum of movement of items like a animate jungle of items. The door indeed does have a key and a lock but it would not find use for the items speak for themselves would anyone of criminal intent feel confident to enter such a space I doubt so for one would be more interested in where they able to find anything at all amongst the interesting walls of the nest of Damian. And I whom was honoured to have entered as a fair maiden of distant Dune view was aghast at how particularly amazing the place in fact was once one had entered beyond the steps for at each angle new items met ones eye. And I wondered how my fluffy haired lover could come away from such a place fairly tidy if not very clean due to the absolute mayhem of items brought together in the heat of the desert to house a man away from home, missing his children, possibly missing his wife. A man whom describes himself as a procrastinator. A dreamer, a sweetheart said she and yet he disagreed and cut her down. He that never wanted to amount to anything should he get anyone's hopes up. He that says he is mentally ill and yet keeps himself out on the island cast away — non contactable. He that organised to meet others loudly at your farewell in case you actually wish he was there. He that prefers to cut away the good wood, the dead wood, the old wood and the new wood — because if there is none you cannot let anyone down can you?
I pressed your pork pie brim up from your forehead showing its magnificent internal fabric pattern to what was a plain black hat. Hints of black and red and white and grey — were they spots? Your eyes were young and looked quickly at me then down in my intimacy. I wanted to kiss you there on the threshold of your steps while you were swinging corporate blue shirts on hangers around in your front garden in a state. You were wearing your khaki uniform and my eyes followed your figure thinking how fine you were even with your back to me in your cute hat and all.
Ah woe is me. I cannot speak the language for this man. I cannot find the foot fall. I want him. He does not want me. I could kiss his eyelids gently. I could sweetly caress any part of him. I could invite him to bed and into my mouth stripping my clothes off in seductive abandon but no woe is me. He does not want any of it. He has no idea what he wants. He is pacing his front garden. He is meeting up with small Indian business men like he is a gay giggolo with a camp wave. He has daughters and wives somewhere somehow that are all he is working his future toward.
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I lay alone as my sands through the hourglass receed trying to sweeten his time with care and understanding and presents and food and alcohol and parties but he says No to the lot. He then becomes ruffled when I show slight agitation that I am leaving it is day 10 and we have totally missed any time together while being only 100mtrs from each other and texting each other daily. He goofily agrees and adds nothing.
I depart with a heavy heart. I want to say something but no I can’t. I wonder if it was him that knocked on my wall this morning at 2am or was it just one of my colleagues … I guess I will probably never know.
Dear God bring me love.
I also wonder if he will like the presents I bought him. They will arrive next week in the post. I feel like I am a sugar mamma cliche. But I can’t help it — I could spend a million dollars on him and still want to spend more.
I spent 2 days loving him. It was lovely as a beginning — it didn’t blow the world apart but it was nice as a beginning — I didn’t realise it was the end — he said he was overwhelmed. It was too much. He didn’t explain and I am caught on a ledge with no idea what went wrong.
