how often I wish for 91 Brunswick Ave
compressed together in a claw foot,
your flesh my home
cakes baked in too shallow pans
I forget what song was playing when
you told me you loved me.

how often I wish for the freeway between
Cocoa Beach and Orlando,
a friendly chaperone asleep in the back
hands knotted thinking:
“this is ours”

how often I think of August bonfires
the terror of an international move
“you would be a day ahead of me for ten weeks”
I felt stronger than the 100-year-old ruins we were
standing in

how often I wish for The Standards,
High Line and East Village,
bacon cocktails and antiquated photobooths and
windswept harbour panoramas
my insubstantial voice begging
“don’t turn the red light off,
I need you to see where my bones shattered
and pierced my skin”

a folding table bearing Super-8’s
sits outside as we leave lunch

pressing viewfinder to your algaeic eye,
you aim it at the sky,

at the soles of your feet,

at the dishevelled seller

but never
at

me.

I saw two grown men cry this week.

heaving their bodies, weighted with wails

my father with guilt burrowed in his gut
live streams his tears asking anyone for
answers to fix his sick son

my lover wishing to be shattered into dust,
logging each passing thought in emails
parceled with regret

I carry them;
I bundle and swaddle and embrace

I light three matches for each of us,
the flame kissing my index finger

we are one

in the ember I hear

we have taken only one family vacation
I wanted to cut off my finger and send it to you
you promised to protect me

my father is martyred
my love is sleepless
these are my men

and although this week I have had
black thread weaved underneath my skin

and I have carved out my name in my stomach
with worry

and I have been swallowed whole by the memory of
my favourite small town in Long Island

he is black
he is in a drought
he is marred too

I want to fill your mouth with pennies

I’ll pull your intestines out with my teeth

your hands are cacti,
your eyes rolled backward
like your rolling papers over kush

I am a cricket,
you are a size 11 shoe

I am click bait for your insecurities:

“self-deprecating,
emotionally vulnerable Canadian
seeks love and fidelity”

am I enticing?

I sat at your window and waited
to see you come up the drive

I am fiction

at the lake where I spent my childhood
you pressed your cheek to the sand

as I held the hand of my 6-year-old self in the water

you left yourself in my mouth
and I am still picking out your remnants
from my teeth

I see no better solution

than to hack away at my joints

and mail them to you

with the note,

“I share this with you”

top 5 things I miss about you:

1) the sunburn on the back of your legs
    the
    way you flinched at the touch of aloe;
    peeling off your skin
    layer by layer

2) dancing high in your room to Pulp Fiction;
     trying desperately not to wake your parents,
     standing in your
     driveway as minutes feel like hours

3) our horrific inability to take
    a single good photobooth picture

4) driving
    driving home from the beach,
    sand
    coating your mats
    sitting in cars writing poems,
    while you wrench tires underneath me
    pulling into parking garages to photograph
    torn stockings against the car’s blue
    exterior
    your hand on my thigh driving back from Ludlow,
    as I am fast asleep
    breaking your backseat as I ****** myself into you
    you naming it after me

5) your drunken texts;
    your colloquial musings at 3 a.m.
    your
    professions,
    your proclamations
    waking up your grounded words,
    despite your swaying body.
  
    I long for your surprise pronouncements
    while I sleep alone 551 kilometers away.

“please be as
big as your space.”

shelve
every moment, big or small for all to see
consume sushi burritos, ice

cream tacos, disappointment and success
you are both the product of your upbringing and
the slick Toronto streets:

your inherent judgement your guide
slide breath into books
and memorize landscapes

and capture soundscapes both mundane and enigmatic
ensure both shoelaces are tied
blazer pressed straight

ensemble thought through;
never neglect finishing touches
absorb Toronto skylines from an Ossington rooftop

walk through frayed soles until heels become flats
leave yourself enough buffer time after clocking out to say
yes to lakeside movies

be here now

“the beauty of life as seen and created by a person.”

we draw shapes in

steam on each other’s backs

worthwhile chatter and brave silences between us
our home is wood-paneled and

rehabilitated

tell me you love me in the kitchen
between hot breath and under salt water moons
pull exoskeleton from steamed baths and sunshine beds
sleep soundly on chests;

your moon and mine are the same, the same sky

I long to
crawl and lie in the hollow between
your shoulder and collar bones

sew roses on your jacket

I’d pluck out all my eyelashes so all my wishes
were yours

slide under my word covered sheets
hear my thoughts as you duck under them
of all the songs I’ve heard, yours is the most tantalising
even in a snow covered maze I’d find you

heaven is coming home to you at my table with a cup of coffee.