Tag: beauty

The Way They Run to Her

It’s not a question,
just instinct.
A scraped knee,
a bad dream,
the kind of ache
they can’t name yet.

They run to her
like rivers find the sea.
Like they always knew the way.

She doesn’t brace.
Just opens
arms, voice,
that face that says
I’ve got you.

There’s magic in it.
Not the wand-waving kind,
but the kind that knows
which night light to leave on,
how to mend what can’t be seen,
how to be
every kind of strong
without ever raising her voice.

I watch them fold into her,
safe and certain.

And I think,
this is how I learned
what love looks like.

Ryan Stone

2

The Shape My Name Takes in Your Mouth

It’s different
when you say it.

Softer,
like it’s something you found
and didn’t want to break.

No rush.
You let it settle
on your tongue,
curl in the warmth
between breath and meaning.

Sometimes
you barely say it at all—
just hum it
into my shoulder,
or murmur it
to the space between
sleep and waking.

I’ve heard it
shouted,
slurred,
scrawled on forms
and barked in anger.

But from you,
it’s a secret.

Not hidden,
held.

And I think
if I ever forget who I am,
you could say it
and I’d remember.

Ryan Stone

4

Where the Sky Begins

I was born to dirt roads
and paddocks stitched with fence wire—
a sky too big for pockets,
and stars that never felt far.

Kookaburras laughed me awake,
and magpies taught me
which trees were theirs.
The gum trees never asked for praise,
but earned it,
standing through wind and fire.

There’s grace in the dry of it—
in creeks that vanish,
then come back when no one’s looking.
In red dust that clings
like the past,
but never weighs you down.

I grew up barefoot,
with sun on my back
and the kind of silence
that teaches you
how to listen.

Free not just to run—
but to be.

To speak soft when I wanted,
to shout if I had to,
to believe in things
without needing to name them.

This land has never been tame.
But it has been kind.
And I carry that kindness—
deep in the soles
of the country I walk on.

Ryan Stone

10

The Reason the World Spins

I did not fall.
I turned—
slow as tide,
sure as breath returning
after grief.

You are not my light.
You are the axis—
the unseen pull
that keeps my feet to the earth,
my voice steady,
my hands open.

Before you,
I mistook motion for meaning.
Now, I know the shape of stillness.
I know what it is
to be seen
and not flinch.

You ask nothing but truth.
Give nothing but trust.
And in your presence,
I remember
that love is not a fire,
but the air that bears it.

If I am anything,
it is because you saw me
before I knew
how to speak my name
without shame.

I will not call this forever.
Forever is a fragile word.

But if the stars go out—
if the sky folds in—
I will find you
by feel alone.
By the gravity
you leave in your wake.

And I will know
that this,
of all things,
was real.

Ryan Stone

7

Whalesong

for the ones who sing into silence

Somewhere below the shimmer line
where light forgets itself,
a whale turns slow in a cathedral of salt—
each scar on her skin
a stanza.

She sings,
not to summon,
not to find—
but to remember.

A song older than shipwrecks.
Older than ropes and sails.

The deep drinks it.
Holds it like breath.
Lets it echo
along trenches where no eyes go,
only ghosts
and pressure
and time without hands.

We used to think it was a beacon,
a call to others.
But not all songs seek ears.
Some are memory
made into sound—
just one creature
telling the dark:
I was here.

Ryan Stone

8

Night Leaves the Latch Open

The sky forgets its thunder,
clouds fold their arms—
somewhere,
a moth dreams of moonlight.

Your breath slows.
The world blurs
like ink in rain.

Stars peer
through curtain cracks,
gentle voyeurs
to a silence
all dreamers know.

Let clocks keep time
without you.
Let the weight fall
from your shoulders,
like moonbeams.

You’ve done enough.

Close your eyes.
The dark knows the way.
It will carry you now,
wherever you need to go.

Ryan Stone

4

Tearing Sunshine

Mum moves like rinse water—
warm, grey,
going where she’s poured.
Hands red-raw
from bleach and bones
she can’t scrub clean.
She hums when she’s bone-tired,
not for tune,
just to keep from cracking.

Dad says work is hard—
but only ever sits,
rail grease on his boots,
beer in hand,
trophy beside him:
Highest Goal Scorer,
1983.

He holds it like a wound
that never scabbed.
Says he could’ve been something
if Mum hadn’t—
if I hadn’t—

Doesn’t say the rest.
He just drinks.

Then one day—
a yellow dress.
Hand-me-down.
Sunlight sewn into thread.

Mum steps into the yard
like she’s forgotten
someone might be watching.
Strips to the greying cotton of her
and pulls the yellow on—
slow, soft,
like trying on a life
that didn’t happen.

She twirls once.
Eyes closed.
A ghost of a girl
smiling through the cracks.

Then boots.
The back door slams.
Slut
In a voice like wire.

The dress tears in two directions—
fabric, then her.
She clutches the scraps
to the parts of her
he once loved.

And shrinks.

That night—
beer cans breathing,
trophy glinting
under weak kitchen light.
He slumps.
Mouth open.
Gone.

I take the trophy,
glass warm from his hand.
Step barefoot through bindii
to the path.
Raise it.

It catches moonlight
for a second.
Then gone.

The sound is clean.

I lay the shattered pieces by his chair,
like they fell
when he groped
for the past
and missed.

Ryan Stone

11

The Stack

Miss Carr was the strict one—
hair wired tight,
skirts to the shin,
a voice of rules
and overdue fines.

The library breathed her name.
Quiet, please.
Return on time.
Hands to yourself.

I once saw her shush the deputy principal,
and he apologised.

We said she slept in the archives,
alphabetised her dreams,
quietened ghosts for sport.

She didn’t see me—
tucked in Fiction,
in the hush between Neruda
and Nietzsche.

As she reached for a book,
her blouse rode up—
bare skin,
lace black as ink,
the kind of secret
you never give back.

Then jazz—
low and slow—
slipped out like sin,
swirling with smoke
and memory.

She swayed,
hips in slow orbit—
a moon
shedding gravity.

I held my breath.
Watched her eyes close,
her mouth curve—
not a smile,
something primal
and wild.

She looked like someone
who once belonged
and wasn’t sure
if she missed it.

She smoothed her blouse,
buttoned calm back into place,
and turned off the music
without looking my way.

But as she passed,
she paused—

“Alphabetical,”
whispered
soft as dusk.

Ryan Stone

7

Out Here, the Light Fails Slower

Above us, the wind leans into nothing.
Below, fenceposts mark the long retreat
of boundary lines no one remembers drawing.

Somewhere beyond this paddock,
a child flicks a torch on and off—
signalling to no one,
or to the stars.

High overhead,
a satellite drifts,
blind but listening.

Closer in,
a man stacks firewood
by feel alone,
his breath silver
in the cold.

He doesn’t look up.
Not at the planets
looping like tired horses.
Not at the slow-failing light
that’s taken years to reach us.

He just finishes the job,
wipes his hands on his jeans,
and goes inside—
leaving the porch lamp on,
a small promise against the dark.

Ryan Stone

12

Southern Cross

Some nights,
when the wind shifts
and the silence settles deep,
I step out barefoot
onto the cold veranda.

Above the gum trees—
the Southern Cross,
low and steady,
like it’s waiting for me
to notice.

It doesn’t blaze,
just holds its shape,
a quiet thing
pointing the way
I’ve always known
but needed to remember.

Not a map.
Not a promise.
Just a reminder
that home
isn’t something you reach—
it’s the walking,
the choosing,
the light you carry
when the dark won’t lift.

Ryan Stone

11

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