So Finely Honed

 

The Kings Cross I knew is gone now.

I miss it like a lost lover.

I miss our conversations.

I miss striking it like a tuning fork in the morning and feeling its frequency resonating in me until the early hours of the next morning. In tune. Sympatico. Aware of each other, human and location, resident and home.

I miss the kindred spirits who weren’t friends but were something better, something more honest, a fellowship of disorder. We knew chaos, we knew each other, we knew Kings Cross.

I miss the girl. Choosing my building was some kind of farewell.

I miss the architecture, the lunatics, the connections. I miss the little showbiz bar under the stairs, the seedy bar upstairs, the small cafe. I miss the hum, the buzz, the grit, the vibe, the sex, the edge. 

Most of all I miss the edge.

Because where else in Australia was the edge so finely honed?

So finely honed by the abrasive sands of the people who gave Kings Cross their art, their politics, their genius.

The King’s Cross I knew is gone now. 

I miss it like a lost lover.

Parkstreet

Ko-fi