You could be the death of me.
But I was born to know the way
your lips curl when my fingers touch your skin,
Take another drag of your cigarette.
I’ve never truly held the words that people throw out of open mouths,
But I’ll take all those you scatter,
Like pennies on pavements.
How you draw breath when I touch you,
How you hold it when I don’t.
Pencil to paper.
Ashes to smoke.
Touch to skin.
Some say the earth must have a designer,
That the meticulous beauty in nature is evidence,
So allow me to presume,
That if earthquakes and hurricanes,
Tear through the land we call home
We will worship them as they pass,
And build moments not fortresses,
Houses out of sand so when the waves come crashing,
I will feel sea salt and calm in the air
There is beauty in understanding this
And in loving this, there is you.
We acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Woroni, Woroni Radio and Woroni TV are created, edited, published, printed and distributed. We pay our respects to Elders past and present and emerging. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.