It is cold in Montreal
Wish You Were Here
for the city would warm.

his mouth is an empty church
his heart is a steady horizon
his eyes are the way home

her mouth is an ocean of spells
her heart is a forest of beasts
her eyes are tinder for stars

-First Date-

Shirt goes on. Shirt comes off. Wriggle into jeans. Bend knees. No jeans. Maybe the newish skirt? Loose dress? Bearing in mind it’s a nightclub, I close my eyes in a quick bid to channel my inner Oracle for foresight on how to dress myself appropriately for the occasion. Twelve years ago I went on my first “date”, yet I’ve Benjamin Buttoned one of the first skills I’ve learned- once so bold, I’ve since regressed- now so perplexed with clothing, in wonder at the texture of colours, the worn-mama of a Technicolor sock orphanage, unable to wear a sweater without wearing every memory woven within. Wool makes my hippocampus itch even more than my skin. Stumbling around my room like a strange toddler-giant, I harvest outfits from my floor, assess, and toss back down into my unapologetically red **** carpet. It came with the house, unlike me. I should have been downstairs 5 minutes ago. Boy’s razor has stopped whirring and all I can hear is the soft swish of my own rummaging, punctuated by the immensely dear and clumsy strumming of my guitar as he patiently waits. A basic four-chord pop progression, and then the bones of a Radiohead song I taught him months ago when we were Just Friends and I was simply the older sister of his best pal from undergrad. Strictly off-limits, and so we grew close in the plainest, most innocent of ways, letting our insufferably weird senses of humor and quirky authentic selves hang out like big bellies over unbuttoned pants. He laughed at all my jokes and I became addicted to the sound. In spite of my five left-arms I tried my damndest to learn Ultimate when he invited me to his league just so we had another excuse to spend our Sundays together. How suddenly and beautifully it changed, very late one night and as naturally as if we had been together for months and the only oblivious parties were us. How fitting now that we should have our first date with my favourite musician, an artist who we had bonded over in our early days.

Unless, of course, I take so long to get dressed that we miss it. I abide by Murphy’s Law as I don my original ensemble and scramble down the stairs with my hands open in apology. Boy is lying on the couch with a button-down plaid shirt and a clean face, a stunning picture of leisure even though we are late. He smells magnificently fresh and I stifle the urge to cough out the butterflies that tickle my throat. Soon we are in a car and the city glides by like a watercolour backdrop, darkened and intensified by the rain. Finding weekend parking on Granville Street is a trick and I feel my driving-nerves swirling about with infatuation for my date and my unbelievable excitement to hear Kishi Bashi and his magical violin live, creating a swamp-water of adrenaline that intoxicates me. I probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel at this point. A side street holds the space for the vehicle and we stumble out into the glorious fresh and chilly spring evening to The Venue. We share smiles and quiet stumblings through conversations that feel suddenly new as we dog-paddle the waters of What We Are Now (What Are We Now?) Normally this would fill me with anxiety, but there is a warmth and earnestness to his electric blue eyes that arrest my fear. I am floating. He is floating. We are red balloons attached by a string to each other and everything about this moment feels buoyant and filled with light, each quick step up the busy, wet sidewalk seems a little freer of gravity. With the seamless quality of a dream-montage our surroundings change and we are inside the bar. It is dark and the scene has been set by a subtle smoke machine that beckons people closer within an otherworldly fog. The lighting is nautical, a deep and dreamy pallet of purples, teals, sapphires that are opaque in the smoke- thick, sliceable beams from the ceiling that rotate lazily through the bar. I wonder out loud at how gorgeous they are and Boy agrees as we marvel at the watery beauty of the frozen fireworks around us. He buys us beer and the bottle is very cold, juxtaposed with the warmth my free hand finds as it punctuates our conversations with a magnetism to his arm, his side, like a bird testing out the tree it hopes to nest in. The bitter, hoppy fizz cuts through the mint in my mouth and I am purring, utterly content. As the minutes pass more and more people appear in singles and doubles and groups. Some are dressed in spandex and skin- ready to dance and flirt, others in heavy layers and caps, looking suspiciously like they had brought their knitting right with there with them. The best music draws out all types of people.

Suddenly I am arrested by the presence of a slight Japanese man, hair spiked up in an edgy bedhead and wearing a sand-coloured suit and bowtie who says “excuse me” as he passes in front of us like a common mortal, just some other dude of average height and appearance and not the music god whose albums have become a part of my blood. Boy catches my shock and follows my laser eyes to the passing man, before exclaiming: “No- no, that isn’t? Was that...?!” With my empathic affirmation I allow my knees to buckle, one third for comedic effect, one third because I am literally star-struck, and one third for the delicious slump into my stunning companion’s arms. It is Hallowe’en. It is Valentine’s Day. It is Christmas. “I’m dying!” I laugh, “I’m literally dying, I’m dying- this is too much, too much- I’m dead!” Boy laughs, his shy voice like a cozy bell and he kisses me firmly, purposefully, dominating my senses with his heat and fresh-smell and endorphins. He grins as he pulls away, shaking his head at me- “No. You’re alive. You’re so alive.” We smile in helpless excitement at each other. “Besides, I think he totally looked at you” he teases. My brain literally can’t process this and I gasp at him to stop. The lights dance more quickly and the man and his violin are on the stage. People are cheering and the room thrills in anticipation. The speakers are so loud and I don’t care, I am hungry for the bass that pulses up through my feet and entrains with my heartbeat. Kishi Bashi introduces himself and my brain stops. Boy’s arm is around me and for the first time in years I am full of an innocent, earnest sensation that I had left for false or even dead. I could almost weep for the joy of it.
Oh hello, will you be mine? I haven’t felt this alive in a long time... my lips move soundlessly with the song I had shown Boy casually months before (“this is my all-time favourite, you’ve gotta check it out”) In our makeshift guitar lessons he had assured me that he would learn this song for me, just to show off how good he was getting- a small jest that left me spinning for nights in sleepless analysis of what that could mean and if he felt the same way about me after all.

I read the signs, I haven’t been this in love in a long time... and I feel Boy’s chest move in a sigh and he draws slightly closer within the chorus so that we are cocooned in the blue and purple and heartwrenching sweep of the violin loops. The crowd sways but we are very still. I notice that my hand is in his and the imperceptible, feathery stroke of his thumb along my palm is as loud as the speakers. Boy was right. I feel this moment tattoo upon my bones, a picture that I will trace over with my mind again and again as time stops and stretches, bending the continuum into an impossible possibility of falling in love and realizing it is for keeps. That no matter how the rest unfolds, this first date, this moment, knew true happiness and belonging in what it means to be

alive.

I’ve filled the emptiest spaces of myself with


                          the best parts of you

not breathing, warm like an homage
but sterile
    
                                                                          remote

a gallery of looped memories
beautiful and untouchable
and convincingly bright
so that no matter where I am
my retinas are tattooed with the space you took in the world
cooking in a scratchy sweater- your electric rants about Jung  
drumming jazz on the street corner for the pay of odd conversation
planting kisses in my hands because you hoped they would grow a wife
endlessly reminding me

                                              (from wherever you are now)

that the best things in life weren’t free
and though expensive beyond measure
how graceful- I hardly noticed how much
I was willing to give
just to keep at a quiet distance

                           this neuronal gallery

Your memories visit me seldom
these days
        but they're just as dear
(when they do)
warm and removed
             like these still May mornings on the coast that are gorgeous, innocent
                           and new
  ... do you remember the absolutely absurd things we used to laugh at?

My killed love for you
I will inject
micro amounts into my heart
whenever I'm about to let someone in
to safeguard against ever
becoming sick like that again.

I once had laugh lines
now eroded by rivers
what grows in a flood?

when my hurt became audible
you protested with your history
I know only what I've known
and you begged me to be the bigger person
and so I was.

And so you grabbed one end of me
and I grabbed the other
and we pulled until taut, until
I was enormous, stretched
and distorted
like a lost giant or
A firefighter's trampoline-

my highest purpose became
to break your fall

and so I did

and so I did

and so I did

Breakups are perhaps the space travel of relationships-
in leaving you I deserted my home planet.
What, what is this?
Everything is dark, unfamiliar, and cold.

floating delightfully with a million rounded
colours, a deep and delicate pressure
we gazed through our collective transparencies at
a magnified love; full of a single breath until
suddenly we-

Truly, the pen is mightier.
Not a hundred love letters could staunch the bleeding-
the deadly **** of a single journal reading.

As the seasons changed like lanes on the highway of 2013
in the colours racing By the side of the road
you caught my eye, holding drumsticks and a little cardboard
sign with the destination:

Home.

Wanna ride? Hop in. You're not alone.

If our first date is imprinted upon my memory-
our first kiss is carved into my bones
and as we tickled, and grabbed, and sighed rummaging through our pieces begging two to align- there was poetry in trading your broken heartbeats with mine. And as we arranged them upon that little cardboard sign we found that if we held them quite firmly, we could make one whole heart- breathing carefully on it to make the fire start and we vowed.

We vowed that one heart would beat for us both, if we held on tight,
and the vow made that day for a while felt alright.

I am the salmon
that struggled all the way up to the bear.

Break my will, but not my heart
break your word, but not my heart
break my mind, but not my heart
it was broken long before the start.

Applying reason, she constructed logic sandcastles
that against waves of love were still hopelessly matched.

When you leave I ebb like Coma Snow White
Not dead, just frozen in carbonite.

You said: someday when I have you
I'm still waiting for "when"
I've been missing your name
I've been needing a friend

We pushed aside our plates
both left wanting more
I've put on my hat but
I can't find the door.

It takes a strange courage to submit to stasis
a gentle acceptance to admit to accordance
a small release to move with grace.

It takes a surprising effort to allow joy to enter
to reveal my belly with trust for all the world,
to allow my hangdog face to return to the kennel.

I watch many move in cool hues, violets and blues,
the slow step of broken people, crushed by crushes, worn with work
as the common connecting thread, the rope bright red held by toddlers at daycamp so no one gets lost.

Sadness has become a language, a lingo so powerful that crowded rooms have little else to say. Whomever heralds the heaviest woe wins. Misery begets fine company. I've watched friends form from frayed souls that fate has patched together, I have watched lovers born from mourning.

I'm so tired of weeping. I'm not sad anymore.

I want to throw open every pair of crossed arms I see like shutters on locked windows. I seek the bravery to tell the world how happy I truly am and accept it as something other than a defeat- I want to laugh even though it will set me apart.

If I can light up a single room it will be enough. A tiny sun may feel lonely, but if it burns bright the rest will orbit.

Never will I permit the easy current of melancholy to drown me.

No more will I hide from the beauty of my life.

He's the type of knot
that makes grown women throw out their shoes.

Terribly impatient but troubled with the tempt- the sort that makes a hand tremor, not with a snare's contempt, the kind of attempt that allows a person ever slightly inside-

a ride, he's suddenly unkempt as the tangle unwinds.

Like sun through mortar, the ephemeral through opaque,
A man made of mountains, a boy made of cake
who received much less love than his daily make,
exceeding the quota, then begging: Here. Take.

He's the type of knot
that fears being cut
that dreams to be free
but sleeps to keep shut.

I'm the type of knot
that causes grown men to reach for their scissors.

I'll wrap you up for always
with a little tendril that sings lullabies, brewing tea
and tucking you in.

A fine pair of shoes we make, my dear.
A glory that causes cobblers to weep
and lovers to win.

Six red roses fastened to my doorstep
wept half a dozen treaties
and begged to be kept.

I quarantined myself in a still pool
tranquil and floating, waiting for the ice
to finally freeze my turbid heart
into a more peaceful *****.

On the shore you saw me
or I saw you
and perhaps I was a lighthouse
or perhaps you were a lifeboat,
gliding from the banks
you poured yourself in like hot oil.

As you slipped over my arms, legs, torso, face,
you breathed into my ear a steady stream of prophecy and promise
-It's not right for a woman like you to be alone. You are built to give.

And so I felt your mouth seal over mine
and allowed you to inhale the starry swirls of life
I had been conserving for winter.

As you pulled me far deeper with you
we could not emulsify
but we became inseparable.

There are moments I see you more clearly than ever

the taste of ginger on a Sunday couch, stretched out cat-like to watch our show.

And I laugh at all the moments I know you would laugh.

Unfair as the prettiest dream.

I can
like you ever
love you always
celebrate your strengths
adore your weaknesses
cherish your mind
respect your distance
accept your path
make you laugh
support your passions
watch you grow
be your friend

I can't
ever give back
the days and hours
you choose
to keep
p u s h i n g
me out of
your life.

Dear _,

It's been hard to write. You were always the muse.
I'm no longer Anonymous. Anonymous is no longer mine.

Once, he smashed my lamp. I heard the sparkle of cheap IKEA glass fanning out on my floor like a miniature Arctic Ocean. When I came back to my room, he had a broom in one hand and your mug in the other.

I told him he could break anything in my life, but not that mug.

I am bound, my dear _ . Not because I wish I could tell you how much _. Not because I , or that I miss when we __ , but by sterility, latex gloves, telegrams. I am bound by the distance and detachment that keeps us safe as we venture inside other humans, other hearts.

The only way to survive terminal love was to induce a coma. Sleep until fixed.  

At best I will dream of your laugh.

Put my heart on hold a moment,
while I pick up the other line...

... Are you there?

How do the vines of our secrets creep their way into the ears
of those we want most to protect?

It will never matter how I know, only that I know you are happy.

So for the love of truth if she makes you laugh I beg you to sing aloud- your joy is too contagious to ever tiptoe around. Not on my (closed) account. All I've ever wanted is to hear your spirit ring across this country.

Of course I love you, Bebe- Q.
(And I can say without doubt, I shall never have another Bebe-Q. What does that even mean?)

Of course I miss you.
I miss you like I would miss most of my major organs.
Painfully.

But if her light makes your heart photosynthesize so that your entire being blooms with life

-Please-

Be free. Let it grow.

The hardest gift I will ever give you is my blessing.

My love, I am letting you go.

Come to bed?

               -I'm not tired yet. But I'll come for a little while.

So begins the bedtime story I recite in my head.  You and me were the stars, the loveable protagonists character-foiled by the scars that always found a way to nose between us under the cover of darkness and love.  Like the family dog who is always welcome (even when sometimes it's not).

And although the story is worn so thoroughly it frays my cochlea with overuse of the thought, I still grow hot to see you beside me once again. Even though I know how it ends, that when my eyes close you'll be on your way again- when the morning comes, as sure as dawn, you'll be lying next to me.

Maybe nothing has changed,

and perhaps the mend sewn deep into the pages of memory is the hope that when my eyes slowly open

there you will be.

For always.

The End

On an L shaped couch on the eleventh floor
I spend these short days with my ghost, hosting tea-parties for silence
drinking espresso like a cure for hurt- I need a drug that's stronger than Love and bolder than Compliance-

-my brain has wrought violence upon itself as I tumble again and again into the abyss of affection, seeking the path but losing the direction. Perhaps when I called you, you detected the inflection of a woman who feels so absolutely that she can no longer discern...

and without careful reflection nobody can learn.

I was never good at playing for sport. I aim for hearts. Every day is Open Season, and my arrow will shoot true-
I'll be ****** if I cannot find something to love in you.

And I'm divided in two, no- a hundred and two, watching myselves like mirrors upon mirrors reflecting every motive, every spark, and every smudge that swings the pendulum from instinct to conscience. Showing the audience centre stage where the white knight swerves off-course to save any soul who's fallen off their horse.

Love will be the end of me.

Cupid, we need a divorce.