i.
When you told me life was hard
You said it was like
Trying to catch water
With your bare hands
And I thought
You are the water droplets
In a place where it never rains

ii.
When you told me
You would rather hibernate
And take a nap from life
I thought
You are the sleep
That eludes me
As I go from falling asleep
To wide awake
Within a matter of seconds
Because when you're here
I would rather be awake

iii.
When you're down
Looking through a pessimistic lens
Of a glass only half full
I drink all the water
Getting rid of the problem
And I would gladly drive
The karma bus
To show you how much worse it can get

iv.
I've heard your sob story
Moans and complaints
A million and one times
But not once have I seen you
Trying to change

v.
See the beauty in life
And capture it
Don't expect anything
And you won't take anything for granted
What you deem as an ordeal
Could be an adventure

We went from
sipping scalding coffee
in the front seats of
your car
to not even muttering
a bitter “hello”
in the supermarket.

I can’t explain what you mean
to me within twenty-six letters
of the alphabet. You were a
“big deal”. We were delusional
and blinded,
but that doesn’t mean
I put you in past tense

I still see the boy in the baggy trousers playing in the sand,
With a rubber ball in one hand, and in the other my tiny hand.
‘Hold hands so that you don’t lose each other,’ Mum screams from the gate.
The four-toothed grin of my favourite playmate.

I still see the boy with the ‘lucky’ green wrist band,
Who crossed the street with me on the first day of school- hand in hand.
And tugged at my neat pigtails from the bench behind me,
The mischievous smile of a schoolboy- so carefree.

I still see the boy with the bow tie, standing six feet tall,
Who held my hand as we made our way across the resplendent hall.
We danced and swayed till the clock declared it time to part,
The dreamy, flirtatious smile of a high school sweetheart.

Now, I see the man in the turquoise suit so grand,
As man and wife they leave the church; he gently holds her hand.
‘…hold hands so that you don’t lose each other,’
The desolate smile of a helpless narrator.

I want to read a book
That's never been read
Hear a gentle word
That's never been said
I want to sit back
And close my eyes
When I open them up
Everything is alright

I want to ring a bell
That's never been rung
Sing along to a song
That's never been sung
Pull back the curtain
With all of my might
So I can expose
Everything is alright

I want to see
What has never been seen
Take a long walk
In the hands of a dream
Reach as far as I can
The highest of heights
And pull down to earth
Everything is alright

I want a spot
Where I feel I belong
Take all that I've got
Before it is gone
I want to shine
The brightest of lights
So I can find
Everything is alright

I looked at your name in my phone,
the picture and last post
from your Facebook account
sent to and from space
on transmissions and airwaves.

I have a hard time remembering
the last time I saw you - at a bar,
the Blackhawks and the Bruins
making history on some LED screen,
while we sipped on cheap beer
and reminded each other
that our jobs aren't that bad.

A wise man said friendship
needs constant repair,
like your old red Jeep,
always rattling and clanking
for one reason or another.

And I realized tonight how things have changed:
that we're not growing apart, just growing up,
or maybe it's both, and maybe it's okay.

In winter, sound travels faster. It cuts through the December air like an airplane through a morning cloud. But inside it's still the same: A restaurant of clattering silverware clanking against emptying plates of an overpriced breakfast and dialogues blending together like the roar of industrial dishwashers. I wonder how many conversations it takes to fill an otherwise empty room with white noise. Sometimes a spoiled child will punch through the murmuring with a wild, untamed hiss, or a clash of plates, glasses and silverware stacked like a wavering Jenga tower will crank necks and turn shoulders. And yet, in my booth for two, half filled -- as my coffee is -- there is silence more terrifying than a raging hurricane. As the waiter fills my coffee with a consolation sigh, I sit quietly thumbing through old contacts in a phone built for someone far more important than me. I see no names that should fill the empty seat, and wish so badly to add a new one.

I am not a graceful person.
I am not a Sunday morning, or a Friday sunset.
I am a Tuesday, 2am., gunshots muffled by a few city blocks,
I am a broken window during February.
My bones crack on a nightly basis.
I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness.
I sometimes don't believe I belong around people,
that I belong to all the leap days that didn't happen.
The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm.
You don't see the lighting, but you hear the echoes.