I want to hug
my son's son
60 years from now.

With beauty,
and pain,
and wonder,
and heartbreak
written into the lines
across my face.

Telling him
he is enough.
He'll always be enough.

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.

You didn't deserve what you got
Because while others forgot
I remembered the girl with flowers
Ingrained in her hair of umber.

Nobody told me that one day you would disappear,
Not from death, but from birth as those who swore to their saviour,
Held you pinned to the dish as you soon found out
There are places where even god won't go.

I can't explain the broken pieces of my heart
Laid between you and I as I saw you, fragmented as well.
Gone was the girl who believed in the good of just being,
Tied to the father who now played the role as the cross.

People ask why religion is a sore spot for me.
Before I could raise myself to speak I remember what
The umber-haired atheist in the Prussian hoodie said in grade five:
"Sometimes life just freakin' *****."

It's been 10 years since I saw you, and you didn't move away.
I heard from a friend of a friend that you had a son now,
A son who also happened to be your brother.
Your son being your brother and your father being his.

My friend told me you said he was born in the name of god.
I just wish you were still just my friend named Claire.

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

Maybe it was the lighting,
But as you looked towards the rooms sky
I swore to you that the glistened dew stained
Your cheekbones, auburn.

It was the dimming glow that bothered mine.
I don’t know if was the environment,
Or the moon of currant, bleeding a signal that made
The mutts howl alongside you.

Your eyes, now faced with fears that knows
It can take over and plaster this town.
Fear subsiding into your crescent gaze
As you avoid looking at anyone.

I know you won’t hear me.
But I want to help you.

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.

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.

It’s was very clear
The purring of the turbine kept us awake
As the dew settled into the drying shale
Becoming what it’s not

Perhaps the men, fantastic
Misconstrued across the dimming ceiling, being blown about
Reminding you of those who you wish for
Rather than the *******

To justify the means
Is to understanding the ******* as no more
Than the tap to which sap leaks from
For the one, insecured.

It’s hard to describe
But the ever wondering desire
That’s been rooted in the back catalogue
Of my heart has sprouted into
A life of its own.

There was no flash before the rumble
And the flames birthed by the remaining ember
From meeting you three years ago
Under a shoddy build wall painted star gaze
Surprised me.

I wonder what it feels like,
     To be unsuspecting,
And be labelled dangerous by
One who I only shared words with,
Unknowing of the flint plating crafted around them.

Perhaps it was expert craftsmanship,
But I was always decent at creating fire
Out of words laced with secondhand desire.
And while you can’t shape much out of it,
You can produce a flame.

Perhaps in a different life
Would one be able to see the shadows
Of two whisps playing in the dark,
And making fire out of the words
They shared amongst them.

I write this, knowing that I will one day forget the colour of your eyes,

Devastation washed over, this was when I realized

I won’t be able to show you that the sun in the sky was something that I made for 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.

There is this pair of sweatpants,
they sit in the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Sometimes
I like to picture myself wearing them.

That comfortable,
snuggly feeling.
Like a warm hug
from an old friend
you used to crush on.

It's such an out there concept,
- but imagine if it happened.
Me
wearing those sweatpants
from the bottom left drawer of my dresser.
Or that black hoodie
that my mom got me two Christmases ago
the one that she special purchased because so it'd fit just right
Or any stained shirt ever
one that you can wear for comfort at home
because finally no one is watching.

I learned young
to button-up
so that there wouldn't be
as many eyes watching me today
so i can go and buy my favourite candy
from that gas station down the street.

And I always wondered
why some people's sunday best
was my only way to feel normal.

I was about 10
when I learned
that wearing comfortable
might get me stopped
by the police today.

I guess this is what it's like
to be true
north
strong
and free.

I never told you that when I woke beside you, I woke up just to hold
You always told me that I lied about how your auburn eyes were
Beautiful describes the best parts of my dreams in which I kissed
You never believed me when I said that my love would forever be
Undying be the whisper, describing the thoughts of my adoration for
You never noticed how I made sure that the temperature was always
Perfect was the night when the forget-me-nots told me to say I love
You made me the happiest soul to exist when you said you loved me
Too

Oh. My. God.

Where the hell have you been? You were hiding just inside the everyday normality of my story. When I first realized the waves you made on my shore I felt like I must learn how to play the piano just to replicate the pace my heart would get to every time I’m near you.

The comfort I get from being around you is like listening to music you never heard but adore the moment it comes on. You are like a song that everyone knows the words to. A modern-day Bohemian Rhapsody, a recapture of American Pie.

Not a long long time ago, I will never forget that your music would make me smile. Your words touch me deep inside, there won’t be a day this music dies. I know I don’t have a chevy but the levee’s not dry.

I struggle to grasp the concept of composure when the thought of you wakes me up in the morning. I drape my arm over my wishes of you being there. It’s not just love, it’s fantasy. Fantasy like the words lost in the winds between us, making me clutch the lyrics of a song that I want to sing for you.

I guess what I want to say is this, you are heard. I swear that the walls inch closer every time you speak just so they can listen to your voice more closely. The melody echoes off every surface, ever enchanting, promising me that if I stay silent I just might hear what beautiful sounds like.

Maybe I’ll never learn how to play the piano, I know that the keys to happiness are strung across the seemingly growing distance between possibility and reality. Because the fact of the matter is, I don't know how to play any instruments. But I promise that I will always dance to the music I hope you’ll play for me.

Whatever happened to the ambition
The youthful enthusiasm of dancing in the wild
As the synth rhythm guides each limb
In accordance to the sentiment given by the DJ


We were nothing more than broke kids


There was something beautiful about the way our spirits
Would float like wisps in the wind
Freefalling past the worries that held us back
From seeing the 5am sun

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

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

I am a warrior.

tell me that I am not,
and you will have some fiercely chosen words hurled at you
butnotdirectlyatyoubecauseimnotgoodatconflict.

you see
i have fought many a doubter,

kept at bay
without ever being a shouter.
mostly.

but, I am a warrior,
i go to war every day.
fighting against the overarching flames
entangling me in its’ depth.
forcing me to pry its' grasp away from my throat
giving me just enough air to say 'good morning.'

'I’m fine.'