a little revelation.
where did my mind go when i left my heart in the car?
i let my mind wander a little too far.
where were my good intentions, i forgot them at home.
leaving my pride and my bad ones alone.
it got to my mind, and when it came back
my heart found the remnants and then it turned black;
but sense came along and pulled them off their throne,
and brought them back to my good intentions at home.

there is a quality subtler than kindness,
though they are connected.
quieter, lovelier, beautiful to notice and reciprocate
if you can see it in those eyes,
that smile, the look across the room

barely platonic, but some kind of love without tension,
a frequency that hums in beholders if you listen and reply
in your own way.

I admire this quality and the people it belongs to;
I only ever see them in passing, mostly,
and in fleeting moments I am enveloped by the warmth, the belonging, this lasting tryst of hearts that stay connected

When they fly back to northern shores,
assemble on the moonlit ice,
after long months of paradise
and call out to the darkening east:

the April Moon is for the Geese

The autumn grieves in muted colours
of life in warmth, stuck in twilight's hold.
Wolves stay away from the edges of the city
and howl in the cold.
It was spring the last time I felt real,
and now it has been half a year moving in phases, through to tomorrow.
I love the autumn, the fall of summer's empire,
the way I can be cold without trying, only warm if I want to.
All the hype about mittens and toques and sweaters gives overrated expectations,
because a short while ago autumn was the death of life, and winter its mourning
because nothing grows.
Is life seasonal? No, its always,
and I will always love you,
love the little ways you live.
The hermit in me is tired and malnourished and I am grieving for memories that feel too good.
Because life is swell.

you are not yet mine
what will I say
to make this into something

I'm wasting time
day after day
but nothing comes from nothing

it's almost june
it's been a year
I wish that I could tell

the lovely moon
to tell you, dear
that I am under your spell

we are not we
just me and you
two hundred thousand dreams

but do you see
a path so true
more lovely than it seems

I pray too much
and barter words
but I am too afraid

to risk a blush
and vision blurred
I think I'll just evade

I am still young
my heart is dumb
my mind is none the wiser

but now among
this foolish love
won't you be a sympathizer

i'll buy a ring
and take your hand
and kneel down on my knee

if I could sing
make you understand
the truth of my soliloquy

You were only a song I'd heard,
one that I had loved almost immediately.

Years and a thousand lakes between us, till we met again,
on the cusp of sorrow and memory,
my love.

She stood next to the mantle
her hair was dark, that's all I noticed.
She said some things to me,
I was afraid.
I dreamt her.
When I woke up she wasn't there,
but when I fell asleep, she was there.
Waiting.
A ghost.
The one she heard when leaving.
Well, pretty little girl,
Go away. Leave us alone. Stay warm elsewhere, please.
Next time I don't want to be forgiving.

darling girl
be optimistic in your ventures

because how you see the world
becomes your reality

It's sunny outside for the first time in a few days and I'm watching it while I type on my computer. Wasting the day. I'm tired of typing. I'm tired of being tired. I just want to be free.

we come from dust and star and sky,
admire the place from which we came;
on hills and rooves and grass we lie
to taste the thing we have became.

-- how selfish and fickle we are,
how cruel and kind and strange;
like suns that burn too fast, us stars
so bright, and then, so plain.

eons pass and still we lie,
transfixed by that beloved sky,
and people live, love, quickly die
in a sweet but single breath of time.

In my stories, I am the girl in the back with pretty eyes and bitten nails, a girl with a thousand classic books read and the daughter feeling somehow abandoned with a family that loves her.

In reality, I mind not the middle of the class, my eyes I find nice and no matter how hard I try, my nails only shrink with a cutter. I abandon myself and I confess to a bunch of strangers how twisted a little girl's life grows once she is exposed to the realities of her mind, poisoned by, well, society.

But honestly, no one is to blame.

every word i read gives me hope.
hope for someone I can be,
hope for what goes on out there,
and what sedatives will soothe the monster in me.

in a silent house

i hear her crying,
him dying,
and the dead ladybugs flying.

where do they dwell,
deserters from mountain peaks,
the depths,
the deep hell, it can reach
but touch them no longer.

Swoop, soar, angels or spirits
floating between worlds,
white bodies and black fingers,
calling the freedom of flight their home.

ages fade into centuries, yet somehow it is written:
someone will remember us, I say,
even in another time...

I feel bruised everywhere.
On my mind, in my mouth, on my body.
I've been figuratively punching myself,
and selfconciously depriving my bruises of the ice needed to heal.
Sorry hands, but I like the colour purple.

I'd rather not go to sleep
by 10pm,
or find my pants and shirt,
and just suffer in the morning.
I'd rather not organize my papers,
charge my laptop,
clean up my crayons.
I'll do it tomorrow instead.
I'd rather not think or feel
or remember how much I miss you.
Instead
I'll suffer
in the
morning.

The contemplation of suicide
might just about override
any other feelings you feel inside,
but please just wait, I promise you
there is another thing that you can do:
call out for help, even if right away
the answer is silent, right by the phone you'll stay.
And call and call and they'll come, you'll see,
but you do that, you hear, you promise me.
Don't overdose, don't pull the trigger
Even though it seems stress can't get any bigger,
if you call for help, it's not just your life you're saving,
you're helping all those who aren't saved by praying.
You matter, you're match is more than everything on Earth,
death is not going to validate your worth,
I will help you, try me any day,
because you matter, because it's going to be okay.

our house is old
our house is new
the counters were green,
the walls, blue

our house has plastered walls
and a brick fireplace
and an old, yellow room
coloured with distaste.

our house falls apart
and you fall down too
painting your heartbreak
into the blue.

you think I can't hear
what you feel and fear,
but it's all too clear
that you're falling apart.

every day in dark beginnings
we stand on sidewalks side by side

as we approach I clear my throat
hoping that our feet collide

and maybe if I stand so still
it can be just you and me

my heart is racing from the thrill
a hopeless possibility

you said my name and spoke a line
and quick i was to answer

but you and I have words too shy
to speak like graceful dancers

i see you and you see me
but do you really understand

how every second I pretend
that these near moments I can stand

to stand beside you,
composed on my own island.

To know you, I would risk our love carved into pillars, declared to history.

It is enough for me, to love you in silence,
without your consent.

Oh how would I cope if this was reciprocal,
but to die with you in my arms
and hold onto you forever?

beast

it feeds upon dreams
and joys
and we blame it for our carelessness

and we forget about it being there
and it loves
and we love
it hates
and we hate

and it hungers
starves

though still it is a beast

kindred blue forget me nots
that knot across the glen,
and tie around the willow's hands,
reminding it of when

the wind would sweep across,
make a dancing sea of gold
in the ditch along the path:
the bright marsh marigold.

And in the cries of sunshine she declared her love -
I was getting struck by lightning at her promises;
The heart I once owned was away in the winds.

did I ever tell you what I saw?
she was there, sitting, still and blush, looking like she had been shot and she was frozen in the moment the arrow had pierced her.
she was chained to the world, while her heart wandered below.

and did i tell you the things I would hear?
nothing. silence. in the air, there was nothing. I swear if I placed my ear against her chest, I'd hear nothing but the begging of her vessels to cease their tiresome beating.

what I tasted?
the breath of her lips was from that of a stilled lung and dry lips. stale and pale as a ship that sails over tides and beneath wales of a frail moon.

touch?
I could touch nothing around her, or she would shatter. The wind was like a hammer to a nail in glass. The utterance of a single songbird would echo into her grey eyes and boil her to dust. Not magic, but a curse.

scent?
it smelled of lilies, and nostalgia. and each memory was a traitor which made her question, "How could I ever have trusted you?" For memories are blossoms one happy moment but bruises the next dreadful one. Often, we forget sunshine when it rains. Often it is when thunder strikes that we cower in the absence of blue.

leaves flicker a tune
and the ghosts waltz at midnight
among the tombstones

the word for when
you're so afraid
that when days end
they're gone forever -

always before bed
i feel this dread
as if tomorrow
will not have this again.

i hate that feeling
it is like standing at the edge of a cliff, wavering
between how beautiful and how long the drop

i lose myself at least once a day
but at least I can watch it happen in the mirror

I miss a thing I have never known
and it's ever so lonely to miss alone

of how things used to be,
I want to say
come back

so constant is the lapping shore of change

across from me
she is playing the guitar
and I love her

Today is April 9th,
Vimy Ridge commemoration.
But it's the morning Prince Philip passed away.
I didn't know him personally, of course,
but it took me by surprise.
It reminded me that nothing really is eternal.
He has been the prince for my whole life and he lived until 99 years old, he would've turned 100 in June.
Anyway, I saw it on TV and I was taken aback because he died.
I don't know of all the things he's done
but I don't know...
My condolences.

she washes her face with cappuccino cream
her eyelashes are showered in burnt coffee.
It's never been so hot in June
and it has been months since she's peeked at the moon.
One month left, she tells her reflection -
that is, one month left until summer truly starts,
one month left until papers are due and life is true
one month until you swim in purple stripes
and ticks take hikes
and lines catch pikes.
One month left and then you can let go and fall apart.
And then...
What will hope behold?

Much to think
much to feel
too much to know
much to conceal.

Places to hide
places to cower
places for time
places of power.

People to miss
people to like
people to know
pig's head on a spike.

je ne parle pas le français
mais vous,
vous êtes couramment

j'essaye
cependant,
vous n'avez rien répondu
et je crois que le silence est ma réponse

sleep deprived,
succumbing to the dreams
you gave, I shifted
once became one thousand, then I fell
into wakefulness

tripping again,
I taste the subtle sands the desert blows
and understand the visions
you impose
without a threat, I know.

But all I want is a soft and dreamless sleep,
oh please,
dear oneiros

getting there may be walking through fire, hot coals,
getting there may need your two favourite things taken away,
getting there may be harder than anything, anything,
and you may want to do anything but get there.

but take it from me,
it is paradise here,
and getting here feels so worth it.

somehow the week is gone
as the church bells ring
and the water moves on

as the birds all sing
to another dawn