Grey men.

It’s Sunday

Its always Bloody Sunday

He has grey whips now, where once black robust locks lay

to go with his surly frame

and deep indigo eyes.

He is a loner.

An enigma.

A thinker, a golfer.


Yet not many know.

She cannot satisfy him.

His longing, his empties, his kind kind heart.

Confused, yet alive.


Then light.

Paradoxical fairytales

Laughter amidst sadness

Tragedy and a father

Who showed him nothing.

His jackets speak in code.

Always designer label.

Like anything less

would be shameful

Forbidden, almost.

Like trick or treating

on a non Halloween Monday.

He is not religious, yet reads Insidiously.

Thinks her weird


as she speaks

Of spirit animals and constellations.

Yet he loves her wild..

She can appear hard

and frank

Unlike her hugs

Which can go forever

Leaving membranous footprints

Inside fingertips

And ribs

And hearts.

And one can fall in love with this


A hug engulfing the entire universe

Like an aspergers he can only

Buy in even numbers.

She likes this quirk.

And he buys her billabong hats.

Her favourite brand

To go with the surf

her veins as the ocean

He fell in love

With love

Or at least the idea of her.

Her essence.

Of them.

In a life together

devoid of labels lust and trickery

shame and intimacy

beyond and inside covers.

There was no Intimacy though.

There were hugs.


Laughs, fights.

It wasn’t a physical attraction

With Tingling groins and hard ons;

moments where clothes get ripped in two

bodies contort

with ecstasy and remorse.

None of that excitement.

It was stable.

It was comfortable and not.

It was a friendship

and co dependency of sorts.

He is a good man.

A good good man.

Why are the good men not sexed up?

Exciting spiritual naturalistic?

Always putting others first?

He is old fashioned

Gently Parts his hair

and too good for her.

He really is beautiful.

She has and continues to

slay dragons

Others and her own.

She is devoid of a God right now.

All she loves is nature

and sunshine and surfing and life.

Clinging to hope

In a disconnected world.

Wishing she could be in nature


Practicing giving.

Yet she needs touch

Her love language, a form of oxygen

More important than food

She is lost

Stress of money

Recovery from a fractured collar bone

Eating, Gnawing at bits inside of her

Life is short

Whispers the moon

Dance dance dance coments the stars


Are not so important

Yet, so very very important

Keep going


Love more than you can.

Believing in a miracle.


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