Here on this ledge
where many come to sit
in solitude, or with company
they leave behind pieces of their grief,
fragments of their love, seeds of their hope
stopping to take a breath
swallowing their words
for a minute of silence

and every time, I plant these things
with the little dandelions,
that make you sneeze
so there's something to blame
for the red eyes

because nothing blooms here
without carrying
someone's story
for you to read, for you to feel.

with frayed edges
a little realization sits in the midst
of the ripples in the river
floating toward the unsuspecting  
like us, when we are caught up
in our best moments
until those frayed edges
momentarily
barely brushing against our skin
leaving each hair standing straight
and the absence of being
the absence of existing
and the absence of those
now far gone
sits with us, here,
with frayed edges

In one split moment, my mother had sliced open grief right in front of me, an afternoon snack she called it. She sprinkled it with salt and pepper, plating it beside the apples that were going bad. We sat on the couch, the plate between us. Someday you’ll remember me, someday you will remember the taste of peculiar things. Like the burn of the pepper when it’s paired with something sweet and ****, and you will sit in that feeling, she warned, as I am today. I ask her to tell me something interesting, to which she would laugh and say, you’re the one who leaves every day, you must have something better to share than I do. All I had was something about walking the lines of the world, with my head down. I don’t have much to fill our silences with, except that I take her soft hands, and in them are stories, many pasts, many feelings, and I hold them. Someday you’ll remember me, and on that day, you’ll split open grief, pour it into your glass of half empty and half full, burning through the day, with the taste of pepper on your tongue.

With my head rested
against the shoulder
that sits between each breath
between each little heart beat

With my head rested
against the wind
that flows between
the inhales and exhales
of this little life

Someone used to say
That spring begins and ends
Like a transient midday breeze

When the colour of the tulip fades
To an old pale yellow
You, grown out of your sorrow
Will stand ahead of the horizon
Ready to live, ready to breathe

The home we built was up in flames
but the cold air could not touch us

Our fences were broken by the wind
but we were once again face to face

I am a nomad inside my own mind
I dwell in my thoughts for a short time
And then I’m off running
Through scapes of sandy dunes
Made up of sand crystals
That come from different dreams
Versions of a story waiting to be freed
And I run towards the water
Where happiness resides
Wandering over hills
Watching the sun set and rise
Looking at the stars
Searching for the times
When memories were moments
And my dreams were still mine

I speak of you
To the aerial views of city lights
Talking about your extravagance
To the lions mane
Hidden in a mountain range
Stories from when I was a child
I try to keep you on my tongue
But forgive me when I become entranced
Lost in the aurora lights
Holding promises in my hands

So I spoke to them,
The seven wonders and the seven seas
About your colours and memories
Some I still hold onto till this day
But forgive me if I forget our old ways
Just know, my heart still beats to the same rhythm
The one it danced to when I was yours
And I speak of you between every laugh
Because I remember what we used to be.


Suddenly I’m standing in front of the world
Speaking of you
As if I was once again
A child
Running
Down your streets.

Right at the seam of the blue lake
childhood runs through the sand
I, cautiously keep my feet on the rocks
leaving behind new footprints
laughing about what still makes us kids
leaning against the fallen tree trunks
that never abandon us to find our balance

I reach out, with both hands
and between *******
are worlds, and worlds, and worlds

When the spring winds fell into my lap
and my stride began to fatigue
and the taste of new days
often soaked in reminiscence
became too difficult to stomach
I tied the skyline around my soul
and made curtains from the sun
to shade the windows from the grey
of afternoon storms
when all the speeding and whirling
thoughts fall into my lap
they intertwine with a breeze
drifting from place to place

A moment for the moon
half-dipped in midnight
A soft sigh escapes
embellished with stars
as it crawls back
into your atmosphere
holding in its center
a small whisper of
an outstretched hand

the last time I had spoken to ghosts
was when I unbuttoned the world
and took a seam ripper to all its edges
sitting in your old chair
holding the fabric of remembrance
chewing on the mouldy taste of grief
slowly freeing the overlocked words
I had buried deep into the stitches

the thing is,
when I get dressed in the morning
There's always a button missing
There's always a sadness
stuck in the hem