there will not be
     enough space
on the epitaph,
      on the tombstone
of my life,
     to recall any words
that have drowned
     in the pit
of
my
throat.

speak, fool. speak.

Your skin is mist,
like cold before a storm,
to the touch

Palms are hydroplaning
an essence of something
that's about to change

Somewhere,
drones are dropping mortars on top of sleeping men. All the while the trusted corrupt are telling their truths to people grabbing what's left. Snow storms and summer droughts are no longer an event. While the world is changing in ways we already predicted, we choose to focus on why we're not the bad guys in this story. All of this, reinforced by the woke who are telling me nothing really matters anymore.

But right here,
I'm sitting alone on a winter night. I look across the street to watch a scruffy tabby knock over a dusty jar left on someone's window sill. Glass shatters across the lawn held tight by a blanket of untouched snow. I watch the shards cast miniature shadows, glistening as the porch light turns on. It was only for a moment, though, before I continue my attempt at writing about the beautiful things in life. Attempting - because these days it's difficult; because it matters. It matters to me oh so much.

I pull myself down
to live on chequered floors
of empty community pools.

The chlorine burn,
         the pressure in my lungs,
are only a suggestion
          as I listen to the echoes
of my heartbeat.

It is only when
my lungs begin to burst,
          my knees begin to kick,
and I speak in bubbles,
that I stop listening to my heart
          and break the ceiling.

Strangers glance at me
          as I laugh into the sky
because instead of seeking air
          I am looking for you.

I've never been a dancer,
but I'd risk being a fool
just to hold your hand
while doing
          my best
                impression of
                       a dilapidated
                              old cockatoo

I'm laying on the floor at 1:37am
on a tuesday, or maybe wednesday.
the vents are reeking of that dog again.

Blanketed by only a scented candle
I see shadows, it resembles residue
a stained glass ceiling.

There is an ache between my shoulders
as I contemplate living, or sleeping
but that's always been the same thing.

As I listen to the showering upstairs,
I try to find ways to speak in words
that have nothing to do with you.

Love is all about the details,
I learned that from you.

The best example being the morning of the winter storm,
How when you were about to leave,
I was reminded that I always had a thing for a girl in uniform.

We hugged before you left, and I remembered that
My favourite part of being close to you,
Is the essence of lilac sewn into your sweater.

I adored the fact that your toque,
The one that never fit you quite right,
Carried the scent of your strawberry hair.

“Be safe” I said.
It was only a five minute drive,
But when I saw the smile in your eyes
I knew you understood what I really meant.