With narrowed eyes
I glare out the window
Ridiculed
by the harsh beams of light
that glare back at me.

My ankles fidget
Shoulders lean forward
to see the unknowing plane
fly innocently overhead
and my bike
leaning unforgotten
against the rotting fence.

I stumble back
Spinning
In a whirring machine
that screeches and shudders
and thumps on the door
Can I come in?

Worried eyes flit my way
Take it easy
Like a fragile possession
Teetering on the edge
Crowds gather to catch
My faults

With walls binding me
I take comfort in darkness
It soothes my body
and warms my tears
but nourishes my fears

Like a frightened animal,
sleep eludes me.
Like a lithe, scared kitten,
sleep dashes away as I get closer.

Yet,
while I chase the frightened kitten around my head,
I'm blessed with an exquisite 5 am sunrise.

But fear not little kitten -
a magic cocktail of pills will soon encroach on you
like a fisher's net!

Already, I can feel their effect,
pulsing through my veins.
Soon, little kitten, we'll catch you,
soon, we'll finally get some sleep!!

We are trapped,
only able to see love,
imagine love.
our senses constricted.
I cannot see you,
only your image,
distorted by the miles between us.
I cannot hear you,
only the deceiving voice pretending to be yours.
and worst of all,
I cannot touch you,
only the screens that separate us,
thin layers to cover up the distance between us.

A beautiful head of hair offered her a drink.
She had to drive home.

High cheekbones and a leather jacket asked her to dance.
She was never a good dancer.

Tall and lean made eyes from across the room.
She turned away.

Friendly and endearing made small talk on the stool next to her.
Weather.
Music.
Occupations.

“So, are you… in a relationship?”
She looked down at her hands.
A white line against bronze skin seared with absence.

“No,” finally,”not anymore.”

I packed it all away.

Every note, trinket, labour of love.

I had to got through it all
first.
Told myself it was more closure.

Closure.
Closure.
Closure.

I’ve had a year to close around,
no, away from
you.

I packed it all away.

Your handwriting is even harder to read through
water
water
drowning
water.

While I myself do live myself simply,
I am not simply living for myself.




Living is my most ambitious art-piece to date;
to be the author of my life's story
takes a tedious amount of charging
buffalo stamina & alligator patience.
I'm making sure you've not heard a story like mine
because
countless friends, family, misfits and strangers
have lost the passion for their stories,  
instead turning over
their heartbeat
blood spilled pens
& mind jazz
slamdance typewriters
to some schmuck to write their story
in a vacuumed & pristine chronologically ordered
paint-by-numbers cookie-cutter drivel.  


I live
because
my mother ended
the chapter of her burgeoning artistic career prematurely
thanks to her parents telling her
what can you do with art therapy?

I live
because
there's something about that jazz,
& a candlelight bath.

I live
because
far as I know, my father is learning
lasting relationships of which his charming self
struggled to maintain with an in-absentia momma
that moved around to a new school each year
and father who vamoosed shortly after birth.

I live
because
when the mouth of my love
splits into a smile, her eyes
flash pink lemonade and rosemary bebop
in a way which synchronizes to my heartbeat.

I live
because
clouds, especially at dawn,
soothe and dissolve any anxieties
of the day or weeks or months or whatever.

I live
because
I didn't know the smell of cypress,
let alone cassia or frankincense
until I arrived in Toronto which has me curious
as to what other scents I have yet to experience.

I live
because
I'm not yet finished
laughing.

I live
because
words won't stop wafting and wading
around my being until I swallow then sing
their messages aloud,
on paper,  
on a park bench,
in someone's eyes.

I live
because
I live.

I live because,
I live.