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I walked by the park where our
past is, with bent grass
where it seemed our
shadows stained.

Your dress, dancing in the gusts,
like gestures, subtle – with
flowers sewn-in
that seem to float
in the winds. 

I should have followed them.
Instead I traced the outlines of
bones and depressions
of our fleeting moments
piling onto
themselves,
as if soft and pale carcasses of memories
that make us lose touch. So we
walk on, slowly,
away from this place,
our old space.

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Dust is in the sun-beams losing float
then wind-dancing.
Don’t shut the blinds, your skin is still
in the light slivers.

There’s a fear here,
of microscopes and telescopes
put to bare eyes not
finding much to make something.
Thoughts still grope for dreams
put into jars
named as stories
then shelved
where memories
lose themselves amongst labels.

The morning light
encases you,
packages you in your
youth-like-elasticity.

Your geometry,
angles with curves that
shed light on the difference between
understanding and experiencing.
It seems it is here
that life lives amongst no answers.

There’s still love here,
it tick-tocks in our
stomachs tight
from over-exposure.  Like an apple
rotting,
what made it
weakens, looking as death
would seconds prior to realizing itself.

Another pint works as filler,
filling the holes
quietly in lovely melodies made bitter
by over-thinking-over-time-and-over-reactions,
losing what’s close
with no grip on it leaving.

With this day
my breath beats as if a heart
stuck to concrete
cracks,
veins under skins hiding us
like the streets do the ground.

The ducks swim and the night is in the
water, a trail
left in silent propulsion as the cold air
kicks me out of this
each-and-every-day understanding.

This is wild.  I can sense this.

 

Her eyes knew my intent,
instantly.  I turned to wonder if I should have been
a tree-climber, working my way to the top
of it all.

Boots on tight, me and a silent tree.

She said she wanted to stay the night.
Perhaps I could have been a
speed-walker, always shuffling away in that bizarre
sway.

Shoes on tight, me and a slight breeze.

I didn’t respond clearly, I was thinking about
sailing on the sea, salt water lips and sun
skin, free.

Wind’s blowing right, me and these salt-skin sleeves.

She said if she left, she’d never see me
again.  I promised we would,
likely on the sea.

You step on melted
thoughts and sink to the
middle, where there sits a
concept
rich and lovely looked upon
always but nowhere
specifically – never spoken.

I can see you in there,
as if stepping on equalizer
bars that throw you
frantically forward in electric
fancy steps
pointing at flaws
that flash before you. They’re all mine,
posted on a backdrop somewhere
someplace that memory
keeps and dreams
call for.

At home here,
as if spilling
wine on white carpets
careless, through chats spoken at
thin smiles
pasted on faces for
stability’s sake. The dizziness of it all
escapes you, and with
wine stained feet you leave
footprints to follow
always.

Can you hear these words?
Through air and water rushing like blood
to the tips of fingers
gently pushing thoughts further.

Standing,
as if emptiness became king,
I miss the fingers of imaginations
that place plots
of romance and rebellions
into dreams that blend this life to illusions.

The lines you draw, thin in precision,
separating me delicately
into lesser men that dance
like static drawings would
in a child’s mind.

You are not here.

A map of Toronto
blows by my hurrying feet,
dropped, lost, discarded somehow.
It tumbles unfolded,
each corner scrapping along
as if wanting to stop.

My responsibilities that have
been abandoned,
unknown,
discarded,
to tumble to someone else’s feet.
I didn’t pick it up.

A delicate nature,
reaches out rising from the freshly churned soil
twisting like late night
drunk-dancers
in their last seconds.  It’s been
missed, this smell
tells me in its swift goodbye,
you drift to thought
to think of now and freshly-always,
known clearly in shaded
night sweats
where the toss and turn
mimics this feebleness felt – remembering
more than me, the footsteps
fingerprints and paintings
shoved through your
mouth and hands
drawn out in forced
creations, though reasoned
slowly, thoroughly
roughly etching my own sentiment into yours to complete themselves
finally,
to become the smell that
pushed me further
finding nothing but yourself in
me as well.