her dads car rammed on the ttc tracks -
drinking a spicy caesar on the road,
looking out for the Toronto police cars.
we ended up at Seoulshakers,
tap danced at the pizza parlors,
and I texted friends a picture of my rings.
i bought the bartender a shot,
but couldn't get steady on my longboard.
reminding locals that i'm an addiction therapist,
over the sound of tequila crashing into marble.

He never told me how he felt,
when he invited me to his old car,
and I shook his honesty and hugs off,
like i did three years before.

Only because I didn't know otherwise.
You're expecting the unexpected,
a new feeling without being earned,
like my respect which left then too.

Why should I care that your upset?
I named my truth again and again,
my boundaries were boastful,
if you didn't listen, am I the perpetrator?
Some things can't be fixed.

the hardest part of wanting is time,
unreliable silences to awkward constancy,
yearning for answers to questions unasked,
only an hour past 4am at Blackburn bar.
better not to know anything, i keep my eyes closed
holding onto cheek kisses in bed, or your pockets
where you say i can live in?
i've built homes and careers out of conscious decisions,
but most relationships out of my ***.
the hardest part of wanting, is wanting at all.

you’ve listened to this song
one thousand times,
each line getting warmer,
to the crafted chaos.
it didn’t make sense, did it?
tempo too long, keys off,
until the chorus rang true.
“this song was made for us.”
nothing can compare to when,
the past and present conjoin,
twisting lyrics into the context
of falling feelings of bliss.
it didn’t make sense, did it?
does it have to,
if it makes sense now?

june bugs hopping into beer cans,
the old park gates clanging open,
and a small white terrier,
outrunning it’s owner.

crooked ex boyfriends stalk grasses,
someones playing backstreet again,
and you’re tanning turns to burns,
so you flip over.

disconnected neighbours make eyes,
sharing jabs about Honest Ed’s,
and my friend falls asleep,
wearing her bra inside out.

you broke my heart on a wednesday
i cried it out for nine days,
and let it go because i had no other choice.
you hugged me goodbye in the wrong way,
and told me you still loved me.

you're running in etobicoke on a thursday
i am buying my own apartment,
and kissing another tall kind man.
you text me about the yeti cooler we bought,
and tell me that you're proud of me.

i don't think about you at all.

i pretend to know about smart things,
sincerely hoping to appear alluring,
sirens of hope to feel amusing and well.
crocheting an ensemble of paper promises,
ripping apart at the lost seam.
vulnerability turns into another joke,
it's funny how we escape reality with this,
easier to laugh then sit with yourself.

i've never been much of anything,
even for my own company.