Walk in, sit there, close your eyes. You're not clothed, but you're not naked. You start to speak, but I was already listening. I am always listening. I am here, looking at you. What do I see? At first it’s a mirror. It’s hard to see and I remind myself this is complicated. Complex. Is it supposed to be? Remember me (when i was with you)? I’m different now. She’s probably daydreaming again. Excuse me please…are you actually there? I know that you know that I know. I find comfort in the check-in. The tender fleshy insides at my 8am, your 5pm and sometimes when I’m back at home and your day is just starting. What is the meaning of distance? Somewhere on the edge of you is a duct, a conduit, a form for containing. You see the sea in me. I’m floating between two places and they’re both true. If you look at me for long enough, maybe you’ll see parts of me that remind you of parts of you. Speed is a virtue, lean with conviction. I am rarely still. Easily distracted. I’m like a slender dog, a spirit, a cloud. Always forming. Predictability is a sticky web. I am wise, shy, suddenly electric. Guiding through effervescent protest, leaving a trail of marshmallow-y disaster. Remember, softness is power. Trust is a funny task, your eyes are closed too. We sit together, knowing through feeling rather than looking. I am tired of looking, so I let my mind feel its way through a space that opens softly. I’m free to be slow or still in the way I need. When you open your eyes, you see me at peace. I am waiting for you to find me here, soon. I keep carrying, excess baggage. We both know it but we don’t say. We never say. It’s easier not to and perhaps, too, that’s where love is — in understanding. I used to think I’d do anything for you, and most likely I still would. But recently I learnt that I have edges. I am a fence; you see a boundary. It’s spongey, but it’s there. You bounce and I harden. I can no longer absorb you. On the edge of us is a small line. A hairline crack that holds the pull of a tide and the tension of a breaking rope. I remember hearing about salt lakes that form in deep sea. You are looking at me and you see me, begging you, to see you, through me. I am looking at you now and I see you, begging me, to see me, through you. I want to reach deep down inside you and inscribe a poem that explains simply that our love is so deep and complex it can hold a lake within its ocean. Don’t forget to look down. No way, secret shadow. I’m breaking balance/looking for legs. My footsteps are slow; sincere. Hot sneakers. I’m waiting for you - I feel like I’m always waiting for you. Or am I waiting for me? I retrace my steps. In a part of your mind, I am you. I ask again. Do you see me? I’m not sure I care. Or I don’t really mind. Can we really see anyone? I’m not sure I see you. At least not all the parts. I can never see it, but I can feel the shape of your heart. It comes through with a word, a frequency, a pulse, a tremor, a colour. I hear your voice. You move about the space gesturing, but who are you? Something feels fragmented. I’m not sure if it’s the colours or just how I’m feeling today. Ready for departure. Moments are constants. Looking straight at you, poiseless. Newly unreachable. Exhausted by the psychic fray of living many lives. Forever falling, we are connected to each other's kindness and cruelty. Your human remains in me, and mine in you. No clear top or bottom. I want to be surprised by what you think. What I don't say, you hear. Sounds like a conch. Stains as blind spots. I'm an orchard and you are the strange hours that bear the fruit. I'm not in a rush; neither lost or without purpose yet, wandering and wondering: who will we be next? Keep falling. Side track. Once there was a fly on the wall, its giant eyes glisten…it thinks it sees a moose coloured mouse run under a chair, it jumps, but wait, there was no mouse, it was only the shadow of her sleeve. Things aren’t always what they seem. You learn a lot by listening. Curiosity, vulnerability, strength and self doubt. A woman wanting to open her ever watchful eyes. It’s funny what you remember. I remind myself: I am not yet done. Sleepy eyes toward the floor, slow starter, high gear with a trip switch. Not much to see here just yet. Ivy on the inside and a sideways glance. An eye for an eye side eye. I’ll get what I deserve. When my mum passed I began having dreams she would return to have one last dinner with us at home to say goodbye. Without you, I have learnt lessons. Infinite flesh words, numbers and language radiating freedom. She says I am the universe. Memory is everything. I always knew I'd never forget. I often wonder if you know how much you’re needed here in this world. I can’t imagine a life without you. red over blue, pants under shirt my foot reaches for the stream but a knee opens the (flood) gate I fill your glass — and you mine our words pour out on the flat ground a wave of hands holding us a part I drink from a cup that says keep going. On the edge of facts and other figures. Within the distance, there’s a mirage. Squint and you’ll see me in the act of self-circumscription, drawing a veil around myself touching it at points but not cutting. We are biologically porous; can I really control what is given away or received? Effervescent in your presence there will be things I want to share, you probably already know them, but I am sure they would benefit from elaboration. There are things you would not see, hiding in plain sight. They are beyond the horizon of your curiosity, concerns not yet conjured in your mind. Silent and still, open me softly. I know my worth. As you approach you see the tails of the mask draped over the arm of the couch. The scent of the first still hangs in the air. Issey always reminds you of your first love. As you round the couch you see I’m not asleep, but I’m not awake. Then you realise I’m still in the pose from yesterday. I’m not alive, but I’m not dead. I'll wait for you whilst you walk through water. – Somewhere on the edge of me TP and you: CL, GM, SM, JB, SA, NH, MA, KB, LR, GT, JR, OR, TW, SB, PW, EF, AH, TB, TA, MB and EF. All images courtesy the artist and Roslyn Oxley9 Gallery.