Funny little —— boy*. Big blue eyes. Greedy. Big strong arms, sexy pout, my beer swilling lout. Black Black hair, long lazy days, summer, hot, desire, meet you in bed, are you still my friend? Seperate, you and I. when i see you im spinning around coz its in your eyes and on a night like this i wanna stay forever coz you make the days brighter and my life a kylie song. Funny little —— boy miss you when you’re gone. Bad poetry. For you. Coz your not here and you’re never gonna know.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx always.

* * * * * *

I used to keep an online diary. A long time ago. I never wrote in it much. It was mainly about boys. I was talking to a friend recently, about expat life, about going back, about giving in and giving up. About fear and insecurity, freight costs and tails tucked between legs. The conversation turned to the reason we are both here, as it inevitably does, and we spoke about love. It was one of those rare moments when I catch myself speaking truths. One of those moments when clarity graces me with it’s presence. And I spoke of the person who has loved me best in this life. I don’t know that I loved him best. But, I do know that of all the people that I have known, of all the people that I have loved, of all the people that I have shared of myself with, he remains the one and only person who has been able to accept the whole of me. The good with the bad, the light with the dark, the anger and the sadness, the vulnerability and the strength, the crazy talk, the gentle (and furious) rocking of my hips. He is the one person by whom I have never felt judged. And it is an amazing gift that he has given me, that feeling of complete acceptance. Thanks to him I know how it feels to be loved, to be cherished. I know what it is to be held and to be soothed, to be wanted, unconditionally and without reservation. And because he gave without taking more than I wanted to give, because he loved without laying claim, because he cared for me as if I was his own, he remains my compass and my benchmark, my starting point, my comparison, my beginning - if not my end.

* * * * * *

I’m getting rather tired of the retrospective. What is it about being 15,000 kilometres from home that results in my examining every encounter, every part of my life in excruciating detail, looking for meaning that in all likelihood isn’t even there? I feel like I am becoming one of those people that examine the tissue after a giant, wet, sneeze. It’s just not right. Especially in public.

* all names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.