still, sunlit & sincere.

sharon. xxv. i want to leave for someplace i don't want to leave. tablo.

[sincerelysharon]

This is all too delicate to be said right now. All too delicate... all too much. There is dust surrounding your past, your present and your future. Too much of it trickling through, rusting gold jewellery and turning the apples sour. There is only so much sweetness, only so much tenderness one can give. I'm sorry, I can't help you anymore, I can't forgive you anymore, I can't anymore.

journals filled with glitter gel pen illustrations of girls with flowing long hair, a cardboard box filled with dog eared books, rain sprinkling slightly, cold soy milk down throats // archaic remains 87

[sincerelysharon]

I've realised, that in some form or another, we all may be poets. Something true remains within us all and it allows for poetry to surprise us, softly and immediately. Though I suppose, alternatively, words have a way of finding us when we need them or even when we don’t need them. I think there may be something glorious or merciful in the way this happens, this synergy of words and voice and connection. But then again, this may be the tired romantic in me.

fermenting a jar of lemons and sugar, orange corduroy sofas with plush lime green cushions. the sharp smell of vinegar and chips, her tired eyes fluttering closed // archaic remains 86

[sincerelysharon]

You held your hand out, liquid sunlight pooling out from your soft pearl hands. Soften, molten, little swollen hope. A tender beginning and I couldn't help it. I cried that day. I fear that I'll never stop.

dimmed lights, the smell of gasoline and sunlight in her hair, white cropped tees and hazelnut syrup. // archaic remains 85

[sincerelysharon]

Time does cast a strange spell on us all. It makes me truly wonder if we ever really move on from things that have hurt us. I don't think we do, which to be fair, is not an extraordinary revelation. But to be sitting on this bus bench with the summer breeze and highway exhaust in the air, it feels strangely revealing.

car exhaust in the summer air, the sourness of ice lemon slushies. the brush of soft hair on tanned shoulders, the plate of orange wedges. // archaic remains 84

[sincerelysharon]

Soft little fatigued body, spilling fat underarms and aching eyebags. Ah! But you breathe so beautifully.

coffee glazed almonds, hot tea burning the tongue. the smooth feel of cloth bound notebooks and your camp gear dirty with rain // archaic remains 83

[sincerelysharon]

Write to me, tell me tender things. I'm a little empty right now but when you tell me about how your daffodils have fallen in love with the soft spring sun... I feel better. So write quickly, so I can trace your words with my fingers, so I can burn these ink memories into my skin, so I can be with you already; birdsong and summer mint tangling in the space between us.

fat buttered light streaming from windows, black cotton socks and glasses of sweating lemonade on wooden coasters. coffee beans roasting and porch sundays // archaic remains 82 

[sincerelysharon]

"do you still write?" the factual answer is i do. but the answer i give is a scoff and a sinking feeling in my chest. yes, i do still write but does it even matter anymore? do my words feel like my words still? i'm so far removed from what i do write now, it's terrifying.

old vintage advertising posters, jade necklaces, elderflower syrup mixed with gin, diary pages filled with scrawled red ink and the smell of jasmine incense // archaic remains 81

[sincerelysharon]

cream painted, sunset dreamt, outlined in gold. my shadowy shelf, soft tender limbs, dreaming of living in a castle in the sky. shifting, sand like figure, sugar crystalline. i loved her, this shadowy self in this golden hour. she was so lovely, a daffodil growing in the weeds, everything i wanted. mirrored hallucination, sunbeams streaming and milk pearl dresses. i could never be that soft, even as i continue to dream to be. sun outlined, golden streamers in my hair, i'll forever be steeped in my half self.

scuffed leather boots, lipstick remains on wine glasses, soft blue blouses with ivory flower buttons and a dirty iced chai cooling in a green marbled cup. // archaic remains 80

[sincerelysharon]

i had always thought that winter fuelled my written words; that the coldness, the bitterness of wind and hail were the driving force of my writing. but i found myself without words this winter, without words for a very long time. this October sunshine, they somehow sludged their way back to me and i'm surprised that it is not winter but spring herself who now compels my words. she softens the font, the typeface, the punctuation, and all of a sudden by a sunny spot by the Yarra River, the words storm my mind all over again.

cold bottled water, crocheted poppies on a light blue cardigan, the smell of mint and eucalyptus in the air and soft grass brushing bare ankles // archaic remains 79

[sincerelysharon]

The worst thing about knowing is the unknowing. The forgetting, the body remembering the before and not the after, clinging to things you thought you had unlearned. The unknowing is the worst because it comes with the knowing, the sharp sting of understanding yet falling into the same rhythms. As if one needs to be undone all over again, as if we are defined by making the same mistakes over and over and over again. Stitching and unstitching, on and on, never beyond.

flyaway hairs, a child’s painting with all the sense of innocence and none of mastery, the sip of ice cold water down a parched throat, the light brown of thai milk tea // archaic remains 78

[sincerelysharon]

sometimes, i wonder where my Anger is. she has left me alone for so long now. i think surprisingly, i miss her.

your favourite green sweater stained by coffee, a pale blue ceramic candle holder. the chalky aftertaste of iced hong kong milk tea, the smell of burning plastic // archaic remains 77

[sincerelysharon]

And if I told you that in this life and the next and all the ones past and all the ones to come, that this was how it was always meant to be, would it change anything? Would you still try be the person you are right now? I wonder about that a lot... about how fatal we can be to ourselves. We carve, we etch, we mark, and never once does it feel like we are creating. How disappointing.

the fraying lace trim on your blouse, dried flowers in a vase. the smell of chai brewing on the stove, a forgotten red velvet scrunchie perched on a dusty windowsill. // archaic remains 76

[sincerelysharon]

I like it when my words sometimes come across as acidic or unnatural. They make the words feel salted, as if you were to run your fingers through them, they would sting. And sting they do, I feel it on my torn skin, the particle acquiescing into the blood stream.

glass bottles placed neatly in rows, the hesitancy of early mornings, the creak of leather sofas, green velvet dresses // archaic remains 75

[sincerelysharon]

No, no, I’m not a writer but sometimes I’m so painfully nostalgic it appears that sometimes I am, where the words coming out of me must be written down, must be inked somewhere. My friend mentioned to me that it may be grief, the loss of my old self, the resurgence of someone new, at a tipping point of transformation with all the pain of changing. And I know now that she was right, that this grief pooling out of me, is now soaking into me with the afternoon winter sun. I’m drenched by this grief.

a sunset believer, crumpets with honey and butter. the drawl, the begging and crying of a stranger in the bathroom. the sky turning purple in the coming days // archaic remains 74

[sincerelysharon]

some memory in the blood; longs, knows, wants  Home.

steam rising from a bowl of warm rice, pickled radish garnishes and the smell of frying shallots. the long goodbye etched in wood, an echo in the wind too long gone // archaic remains 73

[sincerelysharon]

The call for softness seems to have left me some time ago but like an echo, remains somewhere lodged below the breast. Perhaps, it's that disregard of it that has turned it sour, preserved and changed from what it once was.

looping a song on repeat until the notes vibrate around your head, bleached highlights trailing the wooden floor. soft fluorescent lights glowing in the dark, the scent of green tea incense smoking // archaic remains 72

[sincerelysharon]

I wonder if there are any poems left in me. They seem to have dried up, hollowed me out and fled.

the crunch of tree bark under your boot, the taste of eucalyptus in the air after heavy rain and the ache at your temples after a long day at work // archaic remains 71