The Wattled Smoky Honeyeater

Grace runs up to me (this is the part of the story I don't see) and I jump a little bit in my chair when she touches me. Part of me wants to jump, hop, skip and run, most of me wants to lie down and fall asleep because I'm sick, drinking bottle after bottle after bottle of water, pilling every twelve hours and not sleeping too well at night. But Grace runs up to me and I jump a little bit in my chair when she touches me. The part after that, most of it doesn't matter, doesn't merit being put down, including these parts I'll put down now: the way she says "Do you want food?"; the bottle of Welch's I pick from her bag; the shyness she exudes when I point out how colorful she looks today. I used to write songs that froze my skin, a whisper inside my voice; I used to write songs that burned me alive, songs that need to be shouted more than sung, barefoot on tops of tables. Right now I want to write neither, I want to write something else, something that isn't about me but from me, to something that's in me: a plea, an appeal, a beg. Begging to be alive in the way I was that second where all my senses drop beneath the wonder of where and why that touch came.

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I'll write about songs I love soon, I've been busy with less important things.