this year i don’t want any games,
or the off-brand Dyson,
or for him to text me back.
I don’t want my health either, or
the loud lobby music at work,
not the invite to the holiday party.
I don’t want the short ugly uggs,
the pastel candle stick holders,
or the designer knit fits.
I don’t want to feel normal,
like i’m eighteen and self-assured
when everything made sense
because i didn’t know anything anyways.
I don’t want the sweet nothings,
or coal in the place of consistencies -
I just want some chocolate,
and maybe my masters degree.

a light knock on your friends door,
come out and run with me -
let's fly on our bikes for answers,
down a hydro field - down a mickey,
watch the wires send messages, before
the Facebook status', before we knew
how to find peace in doing nothing.
the currency of youth, the awakening,
we all have a voice in our heads? developing
self conscious, *******, an anxiety disorder?
you don't know who you are yet -
you don't know anything!
just walking around garden sections
of Canadian Tire's with your dad -
who kept all his fake Monopoly money.
look dad! the peonies, look! the orchids,
and i'm still absorbing life like this -
noticing beauty, collecting e-currencies,
posting Instragram stories - and
i feel too young to be responsible for it.

you sit with yourself as you always have, alone,
i sit with the complexity of my emotions, together,
letting myself feel everything in the company
of my friends, loved ones, and a self-help book.
i know what safe love feels like because of them,
and that's why i have 25 reasons to wake up and try again.
sometime's i'm alone, but not really, i can't be -
at risk of texting apologies, or writing hurtful truths.
a network of feelings too vast to hold in -
you don't want to see me unearthed.
i wish i didn't have to write about this, you know that,
i'd rather a love poem and soft reflections on trees,
and so i give you my feelings like an arborist would,
watching my friends dissolve my splinters,
cutting my rotting branches one-by-one,
reframing them into fences of growth and change.
i wish i had their way, of seeing what i can be,
instead, i feel like a lotus in a pond of **** -
shining bright pink, like my cheeks, mildly embarrassed
by my own fluid, chaotic, and unhinged sense-of-self.

You are predictable,
and reactive.
Calm and turning,
spinning virtues
humming truths.

I am stubborn,
and quiet.
Calm and turning,
twisting morals
chasing truths.

We are dancing,
taking stock of
tense moments
we would once sneer
to every resolution
in plain sight.

We are kissing,
taking stock of
beautiful orchids
we would once sneer
knowing endings
in plain sight.

the market was covered with silver,
old vintage lighters and hellish hipsters,
you asked me what my problem was,
when we stood there in the mirror,
staring at reflections of hands intertwined,
your feet already cold and staggered.
i said, the issue is i don’t have any
when we’re standing here together.
oh i thought - just give me one good reason.
i want the idea of you more than i want,
steadfast peace and solitude, stable,
sometimes forgetting what alone feels like,
knowing that i’m still able.
i should probably leave us here -
but, knowing that i’m too stubborn,
to let bygones be byes and gones,
still lingering into a prolonged exit -
so i stay with you another month.
i’m never gonna love anything good for me,
centrifuging parts of my identity,
pretending i’m not attached to concepts
and hefty bets on changes -
and it takes one to know one,
so i see right through you,
now i don’t even know your address.

"i can't"
just two or three tequilas,
then i’ll tell you how i’m feeling,
somewhere between toxic,
and relaxed, i can't win this back.
you think i’m always funny,
when i’m losing all my money,
placing bets on how long
this might last - it can't.
i've always been an afterthought,
feed myself another shot, cause
i’m over being an overthought,
i've tried to be easy, but loves not.
it costs too much to hold you,
sticking with it cause i know you -
i see the best in everyone,
your smiles on a discount
mines drawn on in clown,
why does this feel like theft,
baby, lets just lay this to rest.
wake me up when you remember,
how it felt, the beating in your chest,
i know you think about me still, spill -
but we both know,
"you can't".

To you my cellulite
is just pebbles on Sauble Beach,
and my baby hairs,
frame the best parts of me.

Sharing a bed with you
is like floating in water,
and let me tell you,
I could never be more shore.

you call me again today.
it’s Wednesday at seven-o-clock,
my phone displays signs of battery drainage
because my life is equally burnt out, it blinks
for every second that we mull over details,
life’s silly intricacies that we dissect in delight,
like your terrible boomer boss Trevor, or
the bad banh mi you bought for lunch,
sometimes the person i’ll text next,
or my 2nd degree burn from the hot steamer.
i come over next, and we walk to Type Books,
buying more fiction than we can create.
you stop us at Tecumseh for A&W burgers,
because you watched a fun commercial on Youtube.
we go back to yours and watch period dramas,
everything about us is child-like. we huddle,
covered under a wool blanket, like the grandparents
in ***** Wonka, i stand up and perform a one woman
show reenacting a scene from Shrek, i go home.
i call you again tomorrow

they sat hiding under the bunks
whispering babies sharing brief joys
before the mush food and the cold nights
which silenced tradition and beauty
he tried to remember his mothers face,
through stale air and bronchitis stirring,
when we forget what happened
a survivor sees the stares of nuns
on bad days, the arms of a justified priest
his sister can’t speak to him here,
where friends disappear every month timidly
for failing to exist more softly
so he can’t remember his language anymore,
what was the word for hope?

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?

light fragrant cologne, wide cappuccino cups,
rainy afternoons, and somber evenings, warm soft grips, velvet couches, and awkward silences, four legs fitting closely, overwatered money trees, church bells, crossed arms, rude tones, relentless giggles, prolonged eye-contact, tacos, the funny buzzer entrance, tears, riding skateboards home, watching art, park walks, dinner in, conspiracy videos, avoidance, breakfast sandwiches, fancy pants, cringe sayings, dad jokes, detachment, attachment, week night calls, impromptu singing, the neighbours parties, your friends drama, my friends drama, our drama, impulsive confessions, snapchat streaks, warehouse keyronas, tiny donuts, documentaries, game of thrones, embarrassed, attractive, exciting, the body pillow, convience stores, your sweater, friendly debate, heated debate, resentment, come on in, open windows, open arms, hurt, resentment, the 501, and your oatmeal sweatpants

i don't know **** about love,
not the temperature, or commitment,
ball and chains we wield over
how we want possessions and forever's.
i don't know how to love half-way,
not checking the texts back,
letting chips fall where they may,
half my head filled with air,
leave the door closed, for an open window,
or another reason to worry.
i don't know when to let it be,
if it's not you whos next to me -
not a jealous bone in me, but,
can't imagine you laughing with her
or anyone else, because i am something
of a narcissist myself -
and i don't know how to see you go,
so i never get a prescription.

Smoothed by the grace of your thumbs
on my temple -
like a thimble to a sharpened needle
curving about the wandering dark silk.

King West vendours and spinning sugars
left untraced.
Woven into cracks of heated chemicals and gun smoke -
summer is not walking the plank,
only splinters.
Chilled Apothic California reds,
and sweet almond tarts.

I took you for a working fool,
only to find you
a soothing villain.

sitting with myself,
endless feelings of love,
warm sentiments of care,
no one else to give them too.
as if it goes to waste -
the longing i project
it eats me up inside.
can’t hold this in,
30 elephants sit on my chest,
a lion roaring violently,
with me -
the circus is always in town

sometimes i think my life is a movie,
my consciousness a delighted narrator,
except these aren’t all paid actors,
just some people i met over the years.
friends laugh at my every delusion,
my words are not a plot device,
forgetting how they have consequences,
the character gets no sleep at night.
my love interests don’t speak in haikus,
don’t run after me when i try to leave,
or affectionately rub my back at night
as i finally fight to fall asleep.
mortgage bills pill on my desk,
i look stupid smoking cigarettes,
main character energy is hard to come by,
when you have severe asthma and a god complex,
i guess my life is not a movie,
but at least it passes the Bechdel test.

soft like the moss growing on a warm day
between hard brick and asphalt -
we are still left to pave more of this ****,
what was written in a bible over broken ribs,
with an image of us cooking them in an apron.
we are taught to grow softly and tacitly,
not to make a scene or blow fuses in outage,
a complex dance of stereotypes and structure,
boxing up traits of passivity and ruthless nurturance.
we only know what we've been taught -
pinning gentle arms across tense virility,
to thank them for protection and armour -
which has only caused confusion and dissonance.
i craft my words wisely here, hiss for answers -
because anything more would make me too much,
they try to box me up, but never find one big enough.
our femininity does not equal vacancy,
empathy or vigour, neither gender-specific -
but i sometimes think we got different tools,
a baby doll, a kitchen set, i've learned to care
because i had no other option but to.
i've been wearing pants, paying the bills,
and still making time for dinner.
i still feel none the wiser -
sometimes i wish i was just handed a puzzle,
but we'd still have to thank them for the opportunity.

Why is it surprising?
That I can find love,
and still feel like dying.
Have you tried it?
The vacancy of living
underneath yourself.
Have they pushed you
in change rooms?
Left you half naked
to a party you threw.
I have played nice,
pressed his linens.
Gave my shoulders
for weights I can
now choose.
Even when I find
love again.
It’s not enough
to solve a labyrinth.
I’m only assured
by the consistent
accuracy of depression.
Four particular walls
I can depend on
crying behind.

"that's just life",
crickets fill your melancholic walk
as you come to your own reflection.
looking a bit less than yourself
in the glare of an UberX window.
i am the safe place you come back to,
at 2AM, just someone's after hours -
when i should be studying Foucault,
counting sheep and masters applications.
but, i’m here - stroke backs with short quips,
on how this is the last time -
like your sweater with the security tag,
you burn off your evening just to use me.
so i sit still, look pretty, find comfort,
wash off your hands from the floors of clubs,
and sometimes the Portland hot dog stand.
you kiss me with dilated pupils, a soft member,
and the insecurity of your own lack of purpose.
i wake up next week with a fever from hell,
my friend hangs up on me in anger,
i miss the streetcar home, so you meet me,
to make it more about you. of course
you’ve been through the same thing too -
push me off your arms, to tell me, well,
"that's just life".

I try my best to feel merry,
like a Hallmark Christmas Movie,
an angel turning back years and hours,
losing both daylight and humour.

For the first time in a while,
I am starting to feel comfortable.
Each stark snowy street,
has a new set of foot prints.
I don’t always get to split the bills,
sometimes I’m held back an hour.

The cities cars cry out into the banks,
I am crying because I am happy.
You and I drink Starbucks calmly,
trading hats on a bench in November.

you left me on the corner of
mistreated and mishandled,
stone cold cobble stone for
a heart and clicked heels,
tossing a **** on the ground,
only to throw out my feelings,
pushing passion in the name of
whatever suits you -
and it hurts you to see me now.

i go to loud places in the nights we don't talk,
and sit at open tables with myself and peeled cuticles,
chipped green nail polish, and more rings than brain cells -
(i don't belong here.)
i go to loud places and i think about myself,
not in an ego, romantic way, more so in the way that i
end up at my own worst comedy roast -
(i think everything's wrong with me.)
i go to loud places and i stare at beautiful women,
how her skin looks so soft, blonde and dewy,
dancing over Katranada, with perfect lip filler -
(i think you'd talk to her.)
i go to loud places and i want to be alone,
search for someone to be quiet with who might relish
in my quick wit and peaceful violence -
(i still feel less interesting.)
i go to loud places and look bored and afraid,
and most times i am - as soon as i arrive i pack up whats left,
find the nearest exist, and ignore my shouting friends -
(i don't think they care.)
i go to loud places and i think about you,
even when i try not to, men buy me drinks and ask me things
but they don't get through, can't escape the truth -
(i wish i were with you),
i go to loud places and wonder why i choose not to.

******* in knots, and
silky smooth, just
me, myself, and you,
a pack of Cottage Springs,
hungover willful mornings,
and all the words between.
we’ve met a hundred times,
i’ve died a thousand deaths,
but still i introduce you,
to all the parts i’ve left -
the girl with shiny dreams,
actress as it seems - scientist of
feeling, no absolutes, some truths,
dramatic, and quiet at the seams,
a stinging people pleaser, pleasure
in a box, i can cry, i can gleam;
i don’t know anything,
just me, myself, and you,
silky smooth, and
i’m ******* in knots.

Contemporary composure,
compassion fatigue,
and the endless misery
of loving someone that
could never love you.

I want the best for you.
Awarded by frank necessities,
the last good thing,
and the first morning coffee.

I used to think that I
could love anyone willing,
and so it became you.
Honest, direct, and kind.

I did not always know that
love can only be eager.
To change who it is,
only to play the part.

So, You help me run my lines.

i miss you in the sense that i miss the summer,
only on the coldest days, when i remember
altered realities, moments i felt warm and funny.
i miss you in the sense that i miss our ankles crossing,
and i think about venting to you, even when i think
about how you think about, how i’m a bad listener.
i miss you in the sense that i miss football,
because it gave me an excuse to be at your place,
after i could wear those sweatpants i liked -
now i think about my cozy apartment with coldness
and clarity, that i don’t want this bored moment
to last longer than my longing, which it has.
i miss you, when life is full of greys and grandeur, or
electric intensity, self doubt, self hate, and scoring to
track our mistakes before they keep repeating.
i miss you when i’m stubborn and annoying and
none of my friends have the heart to call me out, but you
do, and pull me in with ease, our bodies crash like waves
coming together only to pull tides apart.
i miss you in the sense that i miss myself, because you’re
always a part of me - and there’s no good in goodbye,
and no good in going steady, but i miss you, so i text you anyways.

I shine orange in the light,
of our hazy bitter May.
Holding birthday cards
that pool in a loving display.
Have you ever felt warmth?
Giving up your vacant spaces,
to welcome thoughtful comfort.
Dear God, I hope to feel loved,
with every ounce of rest
that comes with the territory.
Green hills that rise up, softly
blending into endless bounty.
Resting my head between creeks.
I would bring my straw basket,
and pick a few cherries,
just to see if i could win you over.

You reaped my moist soils,
my soft grounded earth bed,
a soul, in a place to rest your head.
Before I only asked for water,
and when the seasons changed,
I died, brown and wilted over.
When our sun got hotter,
I grew with it’s new placements,
turning pedals where they ought to,
in the centre of our pink garden,
opening up for another keen drought.

(She’s here.)
Sitting patiently at your door,
the day you left your keys,
when the lights got left on,
and the closest fell open
(with your discomposure).
She's the equity collector,
the moral police,
and every cut led to retribution.
(It’s bleeding out.)
You never liked my poems,
so for me, it's all just poetic justice.
Karma tastes too sweet,
like my boyfriend’s oat milk lattes,
the sun between the trees,
and my three rough degrees.
(It’s never been easy.)
Flatter me with evil genius -
but I take no part,
i’ve only been cleaning my conscious,
taking out the garbage,
and making your bed,
(so why don’t you just lay in it?)

I remember soft cold kisses
on my parents old couch
and long Sunday rides
to the warm blue lakes
I remember you wrapped up
in my college white sheets
and your lips tasting like
coffee in the autumn mornings
I remember long nights
crossing off all of your fears
knowing my hands
being the only pair to catch them
I remember trekking through snow
just to burden you again
and knowing your fears
we’re always wrapped up
in me

Who would have guessed it, not me,
circumstances and mishappenings.
Both lead to 2am texts
as the parlour doors close:
"You up?" or "How are you getting home?"
Sometimes you're with her, another me,
birdies tell me, less difficulties -
Do you ever think of me?
Missing my body as she falls asleep.
Does she lend you her shoulder?
I wonder about the life you lead,
still, poisoned words when you’re angry?
Was I only passing time,
a laugh and kiss to get what you need?
It's just a question,
but the answers never make me happy.

you call me to check in,
assuring me of your new composure
and make bad jokes for hours,
galloping between Dundas & Augusta.
i’ve known you since you were fourteen -
you’re still tormentingly silly
and too easy to lay with.
you never really made me nervous
until this week -
feelings growing out of cement
in age and moments between memories,
falling into places painted over.
i don’t think we ever wanted this
to really be together,
but we can’t seem to get
rid of each other either.
Flinging back into comfort -
do i like him or is it familiar,
why not both?
Let’s sit a while longer this time,
and see if the paint dries differently.

I'm here at Girl Guide camp sitting by Lakelet Lake watching trees and water in a tête-à-tête, and I am simply an observer. Dull humming surrounds me and fills the air, pushing against my light golden locks that appear before the end of each bright summer. I am younger here, sixteen again and pulsing with light, evoking and echoing spirit. My legs are light too as I approach the edges of a tall birch dock that make the water seem like a steady pool without gleam. I find myself plummeting forward into it, water filling my ears and holding me close. The jump is always the worst part of this lake, the cold lasting, but it's a jump I've made before and it has to be sudden. You can sit there and deliberate the temperature, but you know you have to go in, so you surprise yourself. I quickly feel airy and steady once I make it, you do not need control for this. The water stays timid and vulnerable, I have good intentions. The breeze caresses my face, like a crack between the jet way and the jet, you smell the air blasting through the seam and you have your goodbye, touching the frame of the plane as an omen. My mom does not romanticize this moment, anxiety ridden and terrified of flight, but she touches the plane anyways. There's something to be said about being so sure. Is it romantic to know everything? I don't think so. People who are mostly sure are mostly boring, or maybe those people are floating somewhere too. My best friend Olivia appears before me, she sits perched on the dock and dips her toes in the green. I ask her if she can see anything going on through the lake. She responds, "nothing really". "Just old cottages and old people. Lily pads too".  I look an arm's length away as she said they were resting and find nothing, she must have lied, she knows I love Monet. I keep swimming out a bit further but can't make anything out. No houses, no sweet leathery old people with sun spots, just sun and whispering willows. My arms eventually grow tired and I have no choice but to steady on my back. I lay there, and I float a minute longer, just long enough to acknowledge that I feel nothing in this water. I can't even disassociate where my hands and the water meet, but they're shaking hands anyways.

Welcome mats, and overprescribed ******
that my cousin gifted me on Tuesday.
I don't sleep anymore, because i'm always up ruminating.
Not about anything righteous or measurable -
just eyes closed, pacing narratives.
Breaking off one rib at a time,
to save man, to give him her.
Sitting loudly under neon bar signs,
drinking absinthe with Van Gough’s depression.
Hope is a dangerous thing,
so it’s better not to have any.
I would have done a boring man’s laundry
just to form an attachment over my own delusion.
Love is a dangerous thing,
so it’s better not to have any.

If I could touch next year,
and guarantee your faith
extend the olive couch
prolong the cooking sessions

Kiss your cheeks every night
like grass holding fingers
I too would linger a little longer
put the tea on just an hour later

and hold you up again,
like our four perfect walls

Your handwriting is ******* me the ******* and every time your scrawny little fingers manage to get through a mediocre sentence your black ink smudges across the page like a baseball to a bat. What a terrible ******* comparison. How are you ever going to make it as a hobbyist writer. Hobbyist isn't even a word probably. If you had a second to not think about every single ******* thing all at once you'd probably be able to get through a single prose and thought. But you never could, so why start today? James Joyce's stream-of-consciousness was at least poetic, yours is just frantic and scared like a child lost in a grocery store for a whole minute without their mother. Speaking of, when are you going to tell her to stop emailing you job applications like a service agent. You have a voice. A small one. But a voice. And so do I. Did you think the author name drop was enough to seem like you might know something about writing, because you don't. Rest assured who's ever reading this knows that now. When we get home you better start your laundry because if I have to stay up till 3AM again your going to make me disassociate. That's what you want isn't it? Maybe if you're lucky I'll remind you about that time a centipede ran across your pillows by 1am. You think I'm your OCD speaking - I thought you didn't believe in labels. Whatever think what you want, I'm just a passenger. Kinda like that Black Mirror episode with the girl - you know the one - cause, well, your me and you have to know. What's it like to have a conversation with yourself you sick ****. Oh you just became conscious of your own voice reading this in your head. My bad - actually I'm not even mad about it. Your mad.

to them i am an option,
something that happens conveniently,
only when it feels right, when it fits,
falling into places like a turning Tetris block.
and how many things do you think about,
before you get to me? your family portrait,
hiding me, and their priorities like poison,
and to another i’m just a muse, sitting
top shelf liquor, glistening in the parlour,
a sweet banana whiskey stirring gently.
only for special occasions or birthdays,
life keeps turning without my help.
but somehow i don’t like centre stage either -
not the manic pixie dream girl, not
the girl next door - just, not quite necessary.
i want to be seen in a different light,
but i’m not in need of another casting call -
i could put on an amazing performance,
i could play all the roles, but in their life,
well, i’ve just settled for a footnote.

holding me or holding back,
haven't got the time for that,
pick a side and stick to it,
or to me, autonomously
you decide your fate, and
i've been both faithful and
revered for knowing when
to call a ***** a *****,
but i'm so secure in myself
that i don't want sympathy,
except for yours, so just have me.
sometimes i wonder if i'm
worth holding on to,
but at least i say it all,
can't you see i'm see through?

like a true poet, i sit at my desk and write,
smoke nicotine over spilled ink, pour myself over
a glass of 19 Crimes, because it feels like it is one -
to be a mad woman, cursed with obsession
of hearing your own voice and alluding alliteration.
how quickly i can disrupt, then ask for forgiveness later,
saying exactly as it is, in one breath and nine tones -
which makes it easier to hate me - do you?
they call me a *****, but at least they're calling,
to condense my multitudes (and diction), to mania.
i always felt most beautiful with my eyes rolled back,
and you let me talk-back, I love you more for it,
when we play with words, and sometimes each other.
these days i've been resting more easily, learning slowly
not to bite my own tongue, or the hands that feed it.
i am all too often self-centered, and violently expressive,
skipping dinner, and structure, for expansion.
i want everyone to trust me, so i speak too earnestly,
and make everyone uncomfortable in the process.
but it's not my fault, that i can only be myself,
a mad woman, but not always a woman scorn,
like a true poet, i am mostly just a brat with a pen.

have a good summer without me,
man without dryer sheets, stinking,
singing in the alley behind truth,
something you stumble over still.
did you ever even notice me?
how i spin for you, knotting together
reason and feelings for answers.
you search for half empty cups
on your side of the bed - and say
i’m too good for you, that
you’ll always be this way - so
have a good summer without me,
knowing that’s the only truth
you’ve ever told me.

1 comes out of the wood works on King St.,
working every night as a server,
he used to call me pretty in high school,
I'm 25 now and when he asks me what i'm doing,
I say myself.

2 comes out of the tattoo parlour he shares with my friend,
he used to sneak into my parents basement sometimes,
he just got out of a relationship too,
i sneak him into our apartment.

3 comes out of Alberta skating,
where he met my guy friends online gaming.
Nate is sweet as ever, he makes sure
my breakup isn't ruining me.
He texted me good morning and asked me for coffee.

4 comes out of my university job,
but he looks older and wiser now, more ****** hair.
Banana Republic born and raised,
still wearing the same blazer I picked out at 22.
I pretend to know about hockey.

5 comes out of the gym we once shared,
he watches me run for 30 minutes,
and asks what elevation works best.
He guides my arms on the pulls,
and passes his soft number slowly.

go the distance, take a cab,
pay the tolls and mark my words,
i'm not asking for a lot, just go,
and make sense of what you have.
take for granted, but grant me the
serenity to accept what i cannot change,
you, remember how my shoes feel -
and something tells me, you don't want
to change for anyone - i wouldn't bid on it,
but at least i'll drive up the price.

if you weren’t my friend,
i wouldn’t know who i was -
a part of me replaced by insecure ex’s,
musicians with bad communication,
software developers, underdeveloped,
shifting parts of identity made out of static.
i would cry somber and alone again,
instead of under christmas lights
to the Gilmore Girls opening credits,
where we sing too loud to hear our thoughts.
a sour wine bottle between us, and
vacation magnets lining my refrigerator
from all the places we’ve face-timed from.
reviewing in details your love bombing dates
and my anxious attachment -
raw parts that feel unprocessed,
which you quickly dismiss as normal.
i hope he can love me like you have,
simply, softly, like breathing - and
as brilliant and cunning as we can be,
but never as handsome, obviously.
i love to grow our gardens together,
tending to one another’s strengths and
nurturing weakness for authenticity.
i would take the miway, gotrain, and ttc -
just to laugh on the cold beach with you,
and make some mistakes for review
over another cup of coffee.

they like to tell me
that rejection is redirection,
so my tears turn shorter,
that my energy should draw
on the men who reciprocate

you’re at your sisters apartment
snorting a line of coke,
listening to ajuna beats loudly,
looking for my instagram
to ignore my text messages

the red power outlet
with the drawn on deathly hallows sign,
the 1960s oven
with the ancient lead knobs,
creeking ceilings,
passing passengers of thought.
calculator clicks from the left room,
taking care of wall marks from
the Muhammad Ali success poster,
past the humming radiators
singing hushed whispers of
youthful experiments of doubt.
i'm twenty-five, and three years late,
but i still wonder if they've figured it out.

Let my ******* be your soft pillow,
my green eyes your emerald riches.
Arms that build up spirits and characters
for fantasies of how you want me laid.

Down in my light pink silk sets and soft
pure velvet skins - ask me for the keys.
Plenty for one small stern lock,
but you always end up breaking it open.

As if the sum
of all my parts,
had fallen into
an hourglass,
and hours passed
beyond your shoulders,
baring heavy truths,
like the gentle
touch of Eros,
without clarity.

silly to fall for you again
under the abrasive Pizza Pizza lights
with your childish blue Old Navy thrifts,
and again at the market picnic benches
where you said you didn't want me.
through prolonged stares about
what i meant last month when i left you -
you’re questioning why i don't follow you home?
i hope this is the last time again,
bringing a man to Red Room and my face
turning the same conspicuous colour.
when i tell you i have a stupid crush
and you don't even say it back
because you know that i know,
that you know too well, it’s true.
so, do we both have to have trust issues?
you’re calling me babes over dm's,
while we laugh at each others dad jokes,
except it's not all colloquial sayings this time.
if i have feelings for you, will you still think i'm funny,
or like us is it just mutually exclusive?

the afternoon fell like a slate of snow,
tumbling off the rooftops,
a cool haze of memories of the year -
flashing moments of serenity, pain,
and all the stupid ways i’ve loved -
lost and found. if i am anything,
let me be resilient (and humoured) -
this year was an underground parking spot,
takes me 3 point turns, and 20 minutes,
but in the end i get it done, and spend
another 20 minutes laughing about it.
i dance with you to Usher in the car,
water my plants with conviction -
i’m not sure what the plans are now,
i don’t know what the time is,
i’ve just been learning how to be,
authentic and optimistic -
all i have is hope for the new year,
but when i run out of that too,
i have my resilience to keep going.

we were suppose to be just friends,
but you count the minutes,
between our two apartments, it’s ten
maybe w’ll cross paths again,
depending on the drinks consumed
and the man i’ll be texting next…
now i think there’s been a defect,
eating garlic knots while
discussing our future apartment.
nights are pouring into each other,
now i’m lacing myself to you  -
i make a lot of mistakes, but
my favourite one is us two.