Recorded: January 21st, 2025
Location: Naarm/ Melbourne.
I could write you the most beautiful poem in the world,
talking to you about the love I have for light blue skies lightly dusted in peach hues,
or what it feels like to fall asleep smiling next to a love I adore,
perhaps, I could use elegant words like halcyon and oeuvre,
but I know this not to be beauty,
not in the way the world wants me to talk about it.
I could sit with you and tell you about the intricacies of the gardens and fruit trees that line my street, taking you on a journey, door to door, petal to petal, mulberry to pommegranet
or simply, my favourite place to sit at 2pm on a sunday,
paper in hand, and paintbrushes nearby.
but I know this not to be beauty,
not in the way that society wants me to talk about it.
I've come to know that you,
and I,
are the closest thing there is.
but it is not you who is beautiful,
and it certainly not me. I am a bunch of dead skin, that rents space amongst stardust
and you are from an old galaxy, that died long ago.
but I know this not to be beauty
not in the way that literature wants to talk about it. It can't be in the way you dress,
and I wish it were so, but it is not found amongst the sky in the morning
as much as I crave, it is not the way you talk to me
oh to be true, no sweet hold of mine is synonymous with the word.
and it leaves me to be,
to wonder,
and ruminate. If it is none of these things,
nothing I can touch,
or know,
see, or be.
Where must I go,
to find something so beautiful
beautiful is a thought,
a space,
a light,
a feeling.
something you and I cannot touch,
we cannot reach for it,
ask for it,
simply,
we can only nurture it.
You will never see what I know to be beautiful,
unless you know it within.
so I will not write you a poem
or send you a photo,
or take you to my favourite place.
I want to sit with you when the light turns on,
when the feeling is present,
and the space inside you cannot be broken for a moment.
You will not know beauty,
until you sit with it,
inside.
