There's a well-worn scratch
just below the old brass handle
on the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue

my keys knew it as well as my feet
knew the ancient wicker welcome mat
left by sweet tenants decades before me

take the lucky seven bus to Finch
and there it's hidden behind mid-rises
obscured by traffic and ignored by most

the fading brick harmony
matches the exhausted panel walls
when the door creaks open for you

it was as if it wanted you to be there
the way the little room welcomed you
all the warmth a tired frame could offer

large enough to fit a bed
small enough to hit your head
and perfect for a lonely poet like me

but now my home is packed in boxes
and I'll never again be warmly welcomed
by the door of forty-six Jopling Avenue.

"Maybe I'm not cut out for this,"
I said, knowing he knew what I meant.

"I've never tried harder at anything else--"
His eyes were skeptical.

"Well, I mean, I'm trying, right?"
his eyes remained unsatisfied.

"It's better than you ever do,"
I showed my teeth
to his equal glare.

The boy in the mirror lifted a tired eyebrow
and laughed, in spite of himself.

"Have I made a habit of talking to myself?"
I asked, grinning.

"I listen better than anyone,"
he replied.

Today I saw a man
Deleting photos of himself and a woman
From his phone
He was a very large man
Strong, it was clear
But his fingers shook.

Maybe tonight I'll fall asleep
to the sound of sailboats
sweeping through the stars
collecting their life and
generously handing it out
when they reach the harbour

of course, maybe I won't.

He looked at me,
The helpless boy in the mirror,
And said,
"You can't do this on your own."
Then his shoulders shook
Not hard enough for their burden to fall
And he in the mirror
Sobbed like a broken man
But he was just a helpless boy.

When you write,
What do you offer?

Life to the lifeless
Power to the powerless
Voice to the voiceless
Love to the unloved?

Or are you
Simply
In need of all that too.

I wish you knew how often
I wish for you to know
how much I wish
for you to know
how much
you have
to go.

I'm not describing anything
Any differently​, anyway
I'm not that kind of poet.
I'm not providing anything new for you
Just another way
To feel okay.

Dear man in the moon,

It seems I'll not be joining you,
certainly not anytime soon.
You needn't worry
or wonder why,
for I'll cherish my days
below the sky.

Am I
allowed
to tell you
    I love you?

'Cause I'm afraid
                   you'll say
                      you don't.

Since we last were here
the chairs have greyed with age

they, like us, were once a gentle blue
now they lay aching in the pre-show

the walls quake with the noise of decades
and the air is stained with concession salt

like living memories that were never ours
dissolving in the flicker of the picture

we remember so many first dates
and missed childhood kisses

that we forget the film
is even playing.

The me that loves you
and the you that loves me
are part of me
and part of you

the me that loves you
and the you that loves me
is the me that I see
when I see you in me

the good in me
is the good in you
the learning of me
is the teaching of you

the you that loves me
built the me that is you
and the me that is you
is the best of me.

I'm aware that we construct our realities
I guess I just stopped building when you left.

We'll both fall apart
If we try putting each other back together.
Our pieces are limited
And once we start to lose them,
We can build only with what we have.

Please don't be
Temporary
To me.

How
musical
we feel

brushing
against
each other

a slow dance
of clumsy graces
a waltz in soft touch

socks
on the faux hardwood
kitchen floor.

That day I decided
I'd stay here forever.

I imagine, quietly,
if this were it.
If, while I waited on this train platform,
this ever-romanticized,
transient in-between,
someone pushed me into the tracks.
It would be an accident, of course.
What was I waiting for, anyway?
The news would hear it first,
and they'd be the first to forget me.
Clamboring over my unremarkable story
to the next and the next and the next.
I hope I'd make a favourable statistic.
Then what family I have would hear,
once they determined who I was,
and they'd worry I wasn't pushed.
They'd have so many questions
I'd be unable to answer,
much like when I visit.
Then would come a lover,
as sad as those who loved me,
and they would keep my photo
until they grew tired of looking.
For their own sake,
I'd hope they got tired quickly.
Friends would remember me
and tell me kind words I wouldn't hear,
and I'd be of no help to them anymore.
Every once in a while,
I'd come up in a conversation,
and I'd hope they'd grin at a memory,
but it would be more likely they'd frown.
There it'd be,
my young life detailed
in saddened conversation and tears,
until I'd be left another piece of the past.
The statistic of an unremarkable life.

All at once, it was a rainy day
Chilling and grey,
And I wanted you to stay
But you had to go
So I took back my "hello"
And kissed you goodbye
While the clouds in sky
Continued to cry,
"Oh, who am I?"

The boy who waves the boats from shore
But never dares set sail
Doesn't get lonely.
There are always boats leaving,
Always boats coming back.
He'll help load the ships
With all they need and more
Then step off as they go
And stay just on the shore.
Every passenger knows the boy
And no one knows why he's there.
There's a dock he'll walk
That extends a little into the sea
Where he sits and speaks
To fishing boats that come to visit
But only for a short time,
His toes in the water.
He can swim, and sometimes
Someone will fall from a boat
He'll jump in and swim to them,
Pull them up, be sure they're okay
Only to swim back to the dock.
The boy who waves the boats from shore
But never dares set sail
Gets lonely sometimes.

You can write about me* you said
and that way I'll never really die

I don't want to write about you I said
*If you can't ******* be here to read it.

It's amazing what you find when you're looking
It's astounding what you see when you're not
And what you see when you're looking at me
Is nothing you've never seen before.

Even
The voice
Of the train
Sounds tired.

It's like I'm learning
to ride a bicycle.
Slowly, carefully
and I don’t want to
I don’t want to
but I do, I do
I want the wind
and the rush
and the air
and the danger.
A foot forward
and a foot back
and then back again
and stop, again
again again again
faster faster stop
but then another
a foot forward
tentative but certain
a confidence I don’t deserve.
Fall, crash, scrape my hands,
my knees are shouting at me
and tears of hot humiliation
stain my shirt a new colour
but I'm up again,
back again,
up again,
down again,
and up one more time
but then I'm moving
faster faster careful
moving forward
faster faster whoa
finding a balance
faster faster look
staying upright

and oh,

down again.

There is a big blue bicycle
in the shed behind the house,
to which I will return someday.

May I be the song
To which you drive down the highway
When it's snowing
And dark and cold
And all those wonderful things?
May I be the quiet exhale
When you think back to when
You were a child
And I was your favourite word
Running your mouth around my smile
And grinning like you were all teeth
When you heard my voice in your head?
May I be the old carpet
That makes your toes warm
When you go for a walk
In your living room
And think about those times
Those wonderful times?
But may I please also be
Sleeping beside you
When you go back to bed
After the cup of tea you didn't need
But wanted?
May I be
The form you smile at
When you think
Of nothing at all?
Or is that too much to ask?

There are so many things
I cannot wait to tell you
should I ever get the chance
to know who you are.

Verse I:

I enjoy the way your hair
Is always kind of everywhere
And the way your mind is like that too
As if everywhere is nowhere for you
The way you explain so nicely
Just what you have to say, precisely
While your smile, beaming like an eclipse
Hides conversations behind your lips
So thoughtful, so understanding
With a prescence simply demanding
That I smile around you
And so, I do.

Verse II:

And all of a sudden
spring awoke and

my sleep faded
from the icy teeth of winter

to the cool, orange glow
of a beginning.

You are your own footsteps:
The more you take,
The more you leave behind.

Take off your shoes.
Wool sweater.

Messy hair. Step forward.
Fill your lungs with cold.

Open your throat. Empty your ears.
Check behind you. Nothing. Shiver.

Check once more. Shiver.
Your spine this time. Pulse.

Goosebumps. Back of your arms.
Raised like hyenas. Cackling.

Toes to the edge. Reflection. Shiver.
Look back, look up, look for land, look for green.

Grey. No clouds. Quivering breath.
Exhale. Watch them leave you. Clouds.

Toes to the edge. Down again.
Shiver.

Shiver.
Grey. Shiver.

Reflection. Shiver.
Stop. Shiver.

Reflection. Shiver.
Listen. Shiver.

Toes to the edge.
The edge. Shiver.

Blink. Ripples.
Toes to the edge.

Exhale.
Reflection.

Ripples.
Shiver.

Fog.
Shiver.

Stop.
Stop.

Stop.
Shiver.

No wonder
I love you.

I can speak only for myself,
but I also know
I'm not the only one
trying to navigate
a series of *****-ups,
misunderstandings
and blown opportunities.
I'm trying to figure out how to balance
being in school full-time,
holding multiple jobs,
maintaining a social life,
understanding a relationship,
missing my family,
not being able to afford books
and remembering to eat or sleep.
God knows
you've got it harder than I do.
No one deserves
to go through crap on top of that,
but we always do anyway.
I'm surely going to be
an ******* sometimes.
I'll do what I can not to be,
but it's never been enough before,
and I don't see that changing.
All I hope for
is someone to talk to,
send stupid messages,
bounce homework answers off of,
have coffee with
when we should be
doing that homework.
I owe you that.

Some say
the moon favours
those who listen to it

and some
have never listened
to the moon.

It was sweet of you to sit beside me tonight
I needed someone to listen to the air with me
the two of our faces submerged in a mess
of cold winds and wintery spite and sounds
coats pulled to our ears covered in wool hats
shivers peddling their little dances through us
tremors from the soft of our shoulders
to the flats of our fingertips and holding tight
to our chests trying their best to force even breaths
we sat and waited for whatever we waited for
each unhappy with circumstances we dismissed
in a coat-and-glove-inducing January whisper
too early to be dark out and too late for light
but it was sweet of you to sit beside me.

Up at quarter after seven
out by hopefully eight

take the 36 or the 199 rocket
eastbound to Finch

about nine minutes
give or take, seven stops

then southbound thirty minutes
to Bloor, cut to St. George

down to St. Patrick
they're not really saints

I have my own key
even though I shouldn't

so I let myself in
and tiptoe to you

you know I'm here
because it's Friday

and you smile while
I slip into bed with you

and hold you
until we wake up.

Today we were
talking about
yesterday and
tomorrow we
will talk about
today somehow
even though
today never
happened because
we spent the day
talking about
yesterday
today.

A laugh bounces through the street below
Followed by that laugh's friends
A happy neighbourhood
Even this far into the evening
The sun was visiting elsewhere
Leaving a dull blue-grey
Spread over the sky.
A loop of those favourite songs we all had
Stumbles from second-hand speakers
You don't really hear them
Or rather, you don't hear them like you did
When you loved them.
This remedy-less loneliness
Is temporary
But you wouldn't know it to see it
It pulls you nowhere
And drags you into bed
It makes effort difficult
And overfills your head
With nothing it should be full of.

I walked her down to the train
Which I know I shouldn't have
But, see, it was starting to rain
But I know, I shouldn't have.

I just like to watch her walk
And watch her cheeks turn red
Listening to her lovely talk
Even if it's just in my head.

We used to talk
We did, it's true
But now we don't
Which is probably why I'm with you.

I walked you down the subway stairs
Hoping it was us we'd find.
Like I used to, I carried all your cares
Like a train, trailing behind.

We got to the train, and you nodded goodbyes
But as the doors sighed, I stepped inside
You didn't say anything, which was an odd surprise
We used to do this, when in you I'd confide.

We sat in silence
Beside you, I was
It was the closest I'd been to you
Since we ended things, because...
Oh, well.

Searching for something stupid to say,
I muttered, "I don't regret it."
She whispered, "What?" and I looked away.
It was childish, but I let out, "Forget it."

But then I looked back,
And said, "I don't regret us. Even though..."
("Clickety-clack," said the tired train track)
"... Even though we ended like we did, you know."

She looked at me with eyes that said nothing and everything
And the words stumbled off of her tongue,
"I don't either, though I wish I did,
Then it would be easier."

I reached for her hand
(Which was a stupid idea)
But she let her fingers lace
Between mine, in case
I really did let her go.

Every time I feel close to you,
I feel like running away,
which is exhaustingly ironic
because every time I run away,
you try to get closer.

You blink
in the depths of a sparkling forest
full and rich with sweet colour and sound
a vibrance and power dense with life

blink again
and you are all that's left standing
hot and splintered in a blackened silence
the sky pushed away by a mass of death

blink once more
the earth and sky stay dark.

Of course
I'll say
I'm happy
For you.

A headphone splitter cable
for a late-night neon dance

like fools to the rest of the world
fully content in our own rhythms

the lights swirl around us in streaks
as we peacefully forget we're not alone.

It was the thunder
that told us
her bedtime story
that night

tales of new life
of rains, spring
and morning flowers
far, far away

a storm story
to sing us to sleep.

She'll fall asleep tonight
Hearing the thundering rain
Making love to the impractical skylight
And hating that she can't fall asleep
But rain will relent.

I write into spaces
And talk into holes
Writings are our faces
But words write our souls.

In the mornings,
there may still
be a light fog
on the water.

If I saw you on the same train
stranger as you'd have been
I might wonder your name

if I glanced your way
and you caught me
I'd die in my tracks

and if you sat next to me
without a word or a smile
I'm sure I'd never forget you.