It'll get me too

It'll get me too
like it gets us all.

I might get old

or just unlucky

but when the blackness finally does

come flooding in

and my breath begins to wane

I suspect I’ll remember

the nights as a kid

when mum would scratch my back

—her nails marking the path

to sleep;

I’ll remember running out with you to lunch

in years 8, 9 and 10

—my life feeling fresh

as the light ideas

floating in and out our eyes;

I’ll remember my first kiss

in the room I’d nabbed that night from my mate

—the darkness, her softness, the posters

and everything still

bar the motion of her hand across my knee;

I’ll remember New Zealand

when we’d chuck the ball along

the highway to each other,

awaiting our next ride

—no one was around

and when I’d throw the ball to you,

it’d feel like I’d thrown it across

the entire country;

I’ll remember the nights we’d pack the car

with the whole sharehouse

to nail Mount Osmond

or Lofty

just to get a look

on the city we ruled.

In short,

when the blackness finally does

come flooding in

and my breath begins to wane

I suspect I won’t be remembering

my life

so much as remembering

ours.