i’ve spent years becoming fluent in a language no one else bothered to hear.

i’d be wrecked if someone stole this from me.
the right to stand alone at the ocean’s edge, where the wind slaps my face raw and the salt bites like it’s dragging up secrets i buried long ago.
no one can hand the ocean over like a trinket.
might as well try bottling a thunderstorm or pinning down raw, unbridled chaos.
the ocean isn’t a possession.
it’s a force that demands your presence. when i carve out time to be here, i remember.
i’m never really alone. solitude rides shotgun while the ocean watches me like an old friend who’s seen every scar, every story, and doesn’t flinch.

a hundred glass circles, flat and wide,
lined up like budget baptisms
cheap, holy, and hollow,
gaping, waiting, swallowing light.

the local taxi drivers gather in the car park by the old war tank and memorial in the heart of town, leaning on rusted memories of long-forgotten battles, casting sideways glances at a town that barely registers their presence.

ash drifts down like confetti at a party that’s already soured—families, sailors, shearers, standing under the sky’s temper tantrum, streaks cutting through the darkness like fresh bruises. the full moon watches quietly, the only sober one here, unimpressed by the flash already starting to fade. the trees don’t move, holding their breath. the birds started flying crooked, lost in the mess left behind.