Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

I pass the places we were
one year ago today
not purposely,
it's just that my Gods seem
to have an ill sense of humor.

Walking slowly, numbly, dreamlessly around
a blinking city
that refuses to belong to me
ever again.

With every step kicking up clouds of dirt
in form of awkward memories
from not too long ago
that feel like a hazy far away dream.
it is easier to pretend they were merely that.
Reality is much harder to accept.

Bright Cakes with soft candle light
that graced your brow.
And I find myself hoping and wishing
I didn't know that you were doing so well,

if so...I'd be able to lie to myself
and imagine that you think of me
a little sometimes.

I hope you found what you wanted,
what you relentlessly worked so hard for.

Happy Birthday.

To write, to write.
Even to write this, tragedy
finds the difficulty to be impossible,
unending.
The crunching sound of its bones with
no cartilage is
at such an eerie, unnerving volume.
The shrill nervous laughter
encased in dry shallow sobbing is
crippling.
To mutter the words that may carry
sounds of joy are nearly inaudible.
Conversation with a "friend" is a forked road;
One to speak and tragedy will hear.
A lover of the mind, a scholar of the scar tissue
or a prophet of misfortunes grasp
is the only reality for this
dear tragedy.
To sleep or rest these worn out eyes that
cannot escape the horror never ceasing to follow them,
would be a euphoric sense of helping oneself...
Now to make the sleep last
an eternity or more.

i can’t listen to the Strokes without thinking of my first love,
and how I only fell in love with them because
they were his favourite band, and i was in love with him.
i can’t listen to Mozart, Chopin, Satie, or classical music of any kind without thinking of my mother playing piano late at night
while I fell asleep to the sound of her fingers emanating warm melodies.
i can’t listen to Elliott Smith without thinking of being on the bus on the way to high school, and how much solace his music brought me
during those deeply lonely years of anguish and abandonment.
i can’t listen to the Beatles without thinking of my entire family,
jamming together in the garage, without thinking of love.
i can’t listen to the Weepies without thinking of my best friend,
driving around in her car on our way to anywhere, how those songs are symbols of our friendship in the form of sound.
i can’t listen to Regina Spektor without thinking of myself, throughout all stages of my life, without feeling alive, reminding me of who i am,
as an artist, as a lover, as a being.
i can’t listen to Tegan and Sara, *****, Rilo Kiley, Metric, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Broken Social Scene without thinking of my high school friends, all those concerts we went to, all the late nights.
That was the music that made me brave.
I can’t listen to Jazz music without thinking of my grandfather, and how many times I sang with him while he played the piano and smiled.

most of these people have come and gone
and i could go on
but if I’ve loved someone, there is a song that I will always associate
with them, and that time of my life.
music is the definition of every moment.
it’s one of the most comforting truths that there is.

pockets full of pointless poems
slipping out from under my tongue
i walk home with my arm around the moon,
cold feet finely balanced on the sun
thinking about
my eyes on your lips,
your hands on her hips,
a flash of potential,
a smile that fades,
my hand, lighting your cigarette
knowing full well
that’s as close to you
as i’ll ever get.

You asked me why I don't eat meat
and I told you that I can't stand the idea
of being the reason
a living creature gets hurt.
You told me
They'll get killed anyways
and I didn't have a good argument
other than
I just don't want to be the reason.

You asked me why I felt so guilty about the cuts on your arm
and I told you that I can't stand the idea
of being the reason
a living creature gets hurt.
You told me
I would have done it eventually anyways
and I didn't know what to say
other than
*I just never wanted to be the reason.

Why do people tend
To leave things behind,
When they need to go?
How careless.

How thoughtless.

Don’t they know
That memories unfold?
And they hurt.
They hurt a lot.

But it was thoughtful of them.