And these are my failings:
a wild smile always leads my mind
to the kiss hiding behind it
and sometimes to plot
the shortest route there.
Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too.
And I tend to zone out to small-talk
like there aren't already enough
idle words in the world. I often wonder -
where do they go, those wasted words
once they're spoken?
And I can't warm to people,
despite how I try. I'm lying again -
I don't try at all. I'd much rather hide
with Lana or Bruce, in track pants, alone,
ignoring that night in my fourteenth year
when my father got drunk,
made me drive his ute home -
the soft bump and loud bark,
the crimson accusation,
coagulating on his tyre
Ryan Stone is a freelance writer from Melbourne, Australia. He shares his home in the blue Dandenongs with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd. On daily walks through his forest surrounds, he often peers down rabbit holes. His poetry has recently appeared in Writers' Forum Magazine, Black Poppy Review, Napalm and Novocain and Poppy Road Review.