We walked up stairs that smelled like piss and vomit until the rooftop came to meet us. His hot hand clenched over mine in a collapse, a folding of fingers. We looked down onto the Valley littered with drunks. He let go and joined a group of shadows in the corner. I ran to catch him, my hand growing cold. A puzzled man, his face shape changed now, turned to face me. The group grew quiet, suspicious. He started to speak but I stopped him. That’s not what this night was about. I didn’t want the words; I wanted the movement. I stumbled to the edge of the world on stones and empty bottles, hugging my body to keep from the cold, and swayed to the sound of the bodies below.
A year ago I started living in Brisbane, a place to be my home for the next eight months. I stumbled through the Valley and Chinatown on many drunken nights, and drank on a carpark roof looking onto the streets below. It was dirty and wonderful and I miss it every day.