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.

Kiss me at red lights
and memorize my secrets
hold my hand when you're tired
and I'll give you everything I can offer.

You can be likened to a kite
Bright, vibrant, fun
And you fly higher
The longer the string you are given
And I know
Even though I know nothing
That you would soar
With nothing tied to your ankle.

This black jacket
will fade as I do

and these old shoes
will age with me.

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

We lend so much life
To so many things
That have no need of it
And we take all we can
From those that so desperately crave it.

This will be one of those things
you'll always be a little sad
that you had to let go of,
but you'll understand
why you could not
keep holding on.

Life is relentless
and love is grey,
our hands get tired
and our feet don't stay.

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.

We are like little children
Learning grown-up things
Do that again,
Don't do that again.
Learn,
Don't learn.
We are always little children
After all.

I fell into you
like the first snow
fell into us

at first
not ready
unsure of what to do
sliding and slipping
but we both stuck around

soon we found
each other beautiful
we spent time together
in the dark and
in the mornings

eventually
you covered everything I knew
in a soft and wonderful blanket

sometimes
each of us tired of the other
when once we were graceful
now we were relentless

but now
by the fire
I see you out the window
and remember
our lovely dances

so I run to you
and you welcome me softly
like angels in the snow.

You can tell a ton about someone
By something as little as their hands
(Or as large, or calloused, or warm, or cold)
But a hand holds more than its fingers do:
A nervous nail or a trembling tap
What they mean, I haven't a clue
But they show me things
Wrapped 'round your rings
That I'll never know about you.

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.

There's no question
we were made to break

but are we to shatter
in a shower of sparks

or may we fall apart slowly
after having loved a lifetime.

At the fatal intersection of Jopling and Tyre
you're able to look up through creaking maple arms
to see the flawlessly vertical snow raining down
falling to earth the way you convince yourself you did

your walk home is a distant everyday memory
a dream you wake from as you twist jagged keys
time to think it used to be you used to have time
and now this is your only chance to stop thinking

but today take a breath take a walk take your eyes
look around as if you do not see this everyday
because frankly my dear you haven't in years
looked really at these overgrown maples

the wooden hands that lift you and your hopes
at the fatal intersection of Jopling and Tyre.

I suppose my words
Might mature with me
But they might stay young
As many of us so badly wish to.

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?

"Hi, it's me,"
they said,
and you knew,
so you smiled.

We can sit
wherever

we want
to sit and

we can
count the

fireflies
that shy

away from
kissing us.

I saw myself on the bus today
standing slightly taller
I cut my hair, had stronger arms
and finally tailored my sleeves

I saw myself, a better version
a glimpse into another time
where I was me and not myself
and things must have been different, right?

but then I saw the look on my face
the same tired grin in my eyes
and even I from another reality
would see the same as the real me.

In my years writing
all I have become
is a **** good liar

I will tell you no truth
but all you want to hear
will fall with sincerity

from silver velvet lips.

Your midnight conversations
wrap beautifully around
our early morning
silences, warm,
well-rested
and soft.

Grocery store chocolate chip cookies
and cold milk in chipped whiskey glasses

on a dreary Sunday, foggy afternoon
the radio just feet from us, silent

rain gave up several minutes ago
so now it's just your voice and I.

A pair of imperfect bodies
is all we outwardly are,
but there is a warmth,
a rich, devoted touch,
an understanding
and a strength
that reassures
both of our
imperfect
hearts
that we
are already
more than we
thought we were.

It was with you
that I spent all I had,
and I do not regret it.
I had more time than you, after all.

Close your eyes
and listen to the sound
of eternity circling you

it dances in swirling steps
in rhythm you can feel
with fingertips outstretched

when you stop a moment
it will always find you again
if you want to befriend reality.

if you don't, that's okay,
it'll wait forever for you.

I'll write you a song and
I'll sing you to sleep,
but only
if you tell me
the words.

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.

The t-shirt
You sleep in
Is mine.

With a quiet voice
I said my name is Joshua

they paused
for a moment
as if they'd never
heard the name
before now
(they had,
of course)

as if deciding
if this little boy
would be worth
their borrowed time

their eyebrows creased
and I saw the grin
before it arrived
nervous but
silent and peaceful

and they must have
known right then
that I would never
ever leave their side

because the grin erupted and
that's a very nice name, I'm Lindsey
and right then I was ready to offer
the entire world to them.

I told you not to forget me
So you did
And I didn't want you to
But I guess I have to call it
My own fault, this time.

As crisply as new shoes
meet ancient pavement

confident and certain
but not yet broken in

we set off into a sprint
hand in hand, grinning

and we could run for miles.

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.

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.

A little rain never stops you
from walking to the bus stop
and getting where you need to go

until one day it does
and you're tempted to stay inside
where your blankets cradle you
and house plants help you breathe

your own music can play you to sleep
the heat of where you call home
filling your mind with everything
that is not the weather outside.

I laughed quietly,
showing my grin through a smile,
looking up at her
as I lay my head in her lap.
Her stomach rose and fell against my ear,
and I felt her voice in my neck and shoulders
whenever she spoke.
It was dark outside
and not much lighter where we were,
a consignment store lamp
illuminating the tired couch
I somehow brought up the ****** tiny stairwell
in the back of the building
I know I can't really afford to live in.

I'm wrapped in corner winds
of morbid misunderstanding

where monsters will emerge
and turn to dust in an instant

here you endure the anxiety
of an uncontrollable silence.

Like pajama clothes
we don't at all match

incompatibility clashes
you'd never wear us out

we fit poorly in pattern and
nightmarish combination

we are cut of conflicting cloth
and yet we are so comfortable.

Every writer has penned themselves
the last on the train, the empty diner
even when we aren't that alone.

Be proud of those who are proud:
You are then, in turn, proud of yourself,
And the cycle of healthy pride repeats.

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 will always steal flowers
from your garden of wonders
to take to our cemetery
for I know you love violets

in the mess of daffodils
and green I've seen you
red and yellow see you too
yet we are both searching for blue

among the crystal petal headstones
I run through names I'll forget
leaving white and pink chrysanthemums
everywhere I can still remember

the sun will soon go to bed
and our shadows will finally kiss
we can sleep till purple morning
for you do love violets.

Your blank canvas birth
was long enough ago for you to laugh at.

Now look at you,
skin rich with life,

formed and developed,
a moving, articulate photograph

of crystalline lightning
coursing over you like water

blank canvas death
is now impossible.

It'll be another one of those conversations
where neither of you really say anything
in all the words that spill from your lips.
Half of you wants to cut them off
Press the knife of your lips to their sentence
and tell warm stories until you cease being a storyteller
without even a word

But half of you wants to just scream to them
that all you're screaming
is poisonous nonsense to validate them
To validate yourself
To insist feebly and unconvincingly
That the time you burned together
wasn't a waste
of the only thing more precious than time:
Them.

We fall into just the right places
now it's easy to undo these things
there's nowhere our hands
          don't know where to go
and we're asleep when
          the morning birds sing

our breath knows its way into rhythm
new is quiet and sincere
but still there are sparks
          in the spaces in the dark
and nothing can ever
          reach us here.

We slowly met the morning
when the sun was running late
on a grey-blue Sunday
at quarter past eight

you rolled into me
******* in grey sheets
doused in long hours
and too little sleep

while we hid in the covers
waiting for the alarm
I knew this was perfect
and never wanted to leave

the grey-blue pillows.

I've become one of my stories,
twisting, developing, growing

as I tell myself
over and over

the life I led
became lives

the lies I fed
met reality

sincerity blur
narrative overlap

the story of the end
of the storyteller.

I could just drop off the face of the world. I could get off this train and never go back to anywhere I've ever been before. But I won't. Maybe someone would miss me, or someone would be hurt, I'm sure. I don't want that. I thought about this as I walked, in an old sweater, through relentless grey drizzle before six in the morning, and I began groundlessly grinning, as if I were walking down the aisle. I was on my way to mount a train and embark upon the monotonous commute to a job I need but don't want, to work toward a profession I may not ever achieve. But somehow I don't seem to mind. I've affixed an artificial facade of contentedness to my mindlessness, and for whatever reason, I can't help but enjoy it. I could drop off the face of the world, but instead I smile in the rain and stay on the train.