been spending an hour or so each night
convincing myself
that crying is something i never do

but i guess i can make an exception
for you

cold morning, warm heart
and burning concrete beneath feet
that are tired of playing along
to the off-beat rhythm of the cars that pass
covering any other sound

and i contemplate the difference
between the ocean and the sea
in an effort to stop thinking

well, there it goes again
no matter the metaphor, i'm always full circle
swinging back into this pattern
looking for noise, looking for colour
looking for a distraction

distracted from myself, i turn
to speak to empty air, just trying
to start a conversation with less meaning
than the days have been holding for me

give me weather talk, give me politics
give me capital punishment, for crying out loud
give me something to debate
that will not affect me

and i contemplate the difference
between me and my feelings
in an effort to prove that they are
without a doubt
separate beings

cold morning, warm heart
beating away from my chest
as fast as it can

Sometimes I feel
fleetingly
like I am not here.
I feel like a narrator
like a character
in an unfinished novel,
like
like

like an unending street.
Like this town,
like this place-
a collection of lives,
beginnings and ends,
tangled strings
and cracked windows.

Wandering through the small maze
of downtown,
I know the answer.

I need to get out of here.

whiskey drips down into the skyline
and my sober eyes close, refusing to resist
another heavy night
and i wake up drunk on too much sleep
again

this is how it’s been lately, maybe
i’m making up for those three weeks of sleep deprivation
but i think there might be something else keeping me
tied to the bed so late every morning
finally standing up, still tired
and the shadows never disappeared
from beneath my eyes

at any rate, sleep is not doing its work
bringing me deeper down into the sheets
as the morning runs its course
and still i don’t feel ready to face the world

the more i sleep, the less alive i feel
now tell me
is this how it’s supposed to be?

april cut into the city
in long fingernail scratches
of running water and suddenly brown gardens
and the air fell heavy onto the eaves
of houses eager to open their doors

i stepped out and spoke
into a space filled with spring
just trying to hurry things along, i guess
trying to warm the air
trying to clear the path
trying to make some sense of this transition

i stepped out, leaned forward
and spoke
too soon, i guess
because the mercury sank coldly back into the glass
and the rain became needles, the trees thread
threatening to sew winter back into the sky
and the air retreated back
into a dull winter chill
as if afraid of my open chest
displaying december's frostbite
and january's cold words

and i apologized silently
to the city and myself
for thinking winter could be defeated so easily

present
for you, i’d remain standing
long after the trees sat down to rest
and the sun had done its best to make you smile

past*
i realize your presence was heavy upon me
for years, damning praise and sharp silence
like tags poking out from brand-new clothing, reminding me
to cover you up
and worn, fraying threads betraying the fact
that my feelings for you were long past their due date
and i should just throw them away

present
i never threw them away, i just recycled them
somehow knowing that one day
i would find a use for this feeling, a cause worth standing for
and a body that stood in the same crooked way
you are not the same, you are better
than any face i used to hate, or any voice
that used to grate upon my tired mind
love turned to hate
and now the cycle repeats itself again