A New Stranger

I am struck by how familiar this place is. I was here once, years ago, when it was a different restaurant. Fragments of memories rush back to me as I gingerly lay down my pint glass on the cast iron table. Amused that while the rest of this cafe had been meticulously crafted to look as old as the city, it was only a few years old. Tables and chairs and counters were made of ancient oak, the walls adorned in old and faded wallpaper, and covered with framed British posters in equally aged frames. In fact the newest looking thing, this table, was the only holdover from the restaurant it once was.

Surrounded by friends, new and old, talking about the tallest mountain in the world. Arguing really (should it be the farthest point from the equator, or measured from the base, where is the base anyways?). I remember this conversation. We've had it many times before. Times past when I had taken part too. In a van whose ceiling drooped. Ice cream melting onto our laps. We giggled as we spoke, not arguing at all. Almost playing off each other. I kept having to blow the hair out of my eyes every few minutes just to talk to them.
Boys walked past in shorts, riding skateboards, and girls strode uncertainly on high heels and billowy sun-dresses, trying to dress years beyond their age. I remember feeling a type of content I rarely ever feel, the kind where the windows of that van could have turned to white, and the world outside could have disappeared, and I would've been fine with it. Fond, but not in love.

A woman's voice slips through my thought's of the past, singing words I had not heard in awhile. Sounding tinny on the café's speakers in a corner away from us. I take another sip, and strain to make out the words, the voice. And suddenly I am plunged back to a memory of a dusty road years past, barrelling along as small shrubs whiz by. I can feel the sharp plastic against my right ear, the soft foam covering the headphone earbud lost two cities back. Her voice is here, electricity flowing from my lap and into my ears. My right arm, hanging out the window in the back seat, has browned considerably from a combination of pollution in the air, and too much sun. A herd of elephants stare as we pass by, long since desensitized to the plumes of diesel as they roll past. I remember feeling small, distant, both from those on the other side of the planet, and those in this very car sitting in front of me.

I am brought back to the present after feeling a dry itch inside my throat. I take another sip, staring through the side of the glass at the table across from us. Still my friends are arguing (we're talking about mountains on earth, I don't care how big they are on Mars). The table is familiar, and stands apart from the rest, not the same design or shape. Cast iron with a hole in the middle for an umbrella. Rusted over from years spent outdoors.

This place used to be a pizzeria, I remember. I remember a cool late summer night. We were searching for a place to eat. We were still new to a city we had lived in our whole lives. I remember I wiggled my left big toe in my shoe, probing the hole in the front I had discovered earlier in the day walking from the bus stop. We sat at one of the square cast iron tables, trying to make heads or tails of the menu
Things like pesto and gorgonzola and calabrese salami were so delightfully foreign and new. I remember how open the world still felt, that something so close could be so exotic and fresh.

I return again to the present as the server approaches our table. A break in the argument as dessert arrives (because nothing goes better with beer than cake voice oozing with sarcasm). As I bite into the red velvet cake, I cringe at the shock of sugar to my system that is still trying to make beer taste sweet.

I remember the first time I ever came to this place. In its current incarnation that is. It was early spring, and we had just arrived after failing to find food at a Shakespearean festival. I was surrounded by friends I had not seen in a long time (in hindsight, I haven't seen them since either). I was wearing dress pants, a notion I was still unfamiliar and uncomfortable with, as with the collared shirts. I remember sharing stories of nostalgia and childhood games with them all. How it used to be back when our worst worries were how long it was until recess. And all I could think was how they were all like people sent off to space for me. I had known them all well years ago. They had lived on only in my memories. They had lived there as children, Now, suddenly, they appeared before me again one day as adults, with fully formed opinions and tastes and culture that I couldn't even begin to understand. I remember feeling juvenile, that I had been left behind while everyone else had been off growing up.

A tap on the shoulder, and a slip of paper is placed before me (you ready to pay or are you hoping we'll cover you?). A friend asks if I am okay, I hadn't said anything all night.

I am fine, just tired, or so I say. I pay my share, say my goodbyes, and run across the street to my car, shielding my head from the rain. I sit heavily into the car. And I think. Of all the different people I once was, how if any one of these people had met me now with none of our past history, we would have nothing in common. People who had been so dear to me in a lifetime past were now strangers that felt obligated to keep in touch. I wondered what, in the future, we would talk about. If every year I will be a new stranger to even myself.

Why I write poetry

Come on, you sons of bitches! Do you want to live forever?
     ~Daniel Daly

I don't want my legacy to be an empire.
I don't want it to be a story of a man who rose above the odds to do great things or wondrous things or amazing things.
I don't want my blood and seed to wash across the earth.
I don't want my point of view and values and ideals and ideas to live on without me.
I don't even want the remains of the molecules of my dust to go anywhere in particular.

I just want to leave behind these emotions, this feeling.
The intensity of joy when I saw her smile.
The swell of pride when I knew it was just for me.
The unending grief when she finally left me.
The unbreakable peace I know I will feel when I finally, eventually, meet her again in the next life.

I don't know how to leave any of that behind.
So I write these words in hope that somewhere hidden among them, those feelings can hide.
And come back out when I'm long gone.
And leap off the page, and onto your face, into your heart.

And then, then I will live forever.

I am an Island

I woke up today like any other day. Hair matted with a combination of sweat and drool. I sleep with my mouth open because of my cystic fibrosis. Mild cystic fibrosis. The doctor had called it mild anyway. That most people are diagnosed when they are just a baby, that I was lucky I was only 20 when it set in. It means I am constantly getting sick with the flu, and have attacks of shortness of breath. He said it wasn't life threatening, but I would be dealing with it for the rest of my life. That was five years ago.

I used to get scared about it. A lot. Thinking that one day I would get another attack, and that would be it. My lungs would just give up, and I'd choke on my own lungs. Its scary to think that at a moment's notice my body would decide to give up on me. That's what I think kicked me in my ass. That thought that not only would I die, but I'd die because I had weak lungs. I'd never thought about excercising my lungs before, but now it seemed pretty damn important to do it. So I started running. And playing soccer. It's not like I was completely out of shape or anything, but I started doing it like my life depended on it. Because I thought my life DID depend on it. I imagined my cystic fibrosis was a tall and skinny monster with compound bug eyes and pincers, and was chasing me when I ran anywhere. Just waiting to catch up to me and clamp down on my lungs.

After three months I started to feel better. I had fewer attacks and my breathing felt even more normal. It still struck when I slept, but I started sleeping with a few pillows under my head, and with my mouth open. It all seemed to help. But then, I had the mother of all attacks. I was running on a fall afternoon, just around sunset, when my lungs stopped. Not slowed down, so it was hard to breath, but stopped altogether. I banged my chest, grabbed my throat, but nothing. They had given up. I thought that was the end for me.

I passed out.

I remember waking up in the hospital. My doctor was there with the other hospital doctors, and my mom and sisters. She was yelling at him, but in Chinese and of course he didn't understand. My sisters were trying to calm her down. I couldn't make out what they were saying. But one of the nurses noticed me waking up, and ushered them all out of the room, all except for my doctor. He told me I was lucky that someone had noticed me falling down on the sidewalk. They were able to resuscitate me, just barely. He said it was a very bad idea to have been excercising that hard. That my cystic fibrosis made my lungs weak, that I had to go easy on them. I couldn't go full out like I had been doing and expect it to be okay. Of course that scared the crap out of me. The doctor later told me that my recovery should have been in a day or two, but I ended up taking almost two weeks.

I was hooked up to something called a CPAP. It was like a breathing mask, but just for my nose. It also kind of scared me, but only at first. It always felt like someone was holding the end of it closed for a split second every time i breathed in or out, but would also blow a bunch of extra air into my lungs. Once I got over the fear of each breath being held for half a second, I started to really appreciate it. My lungs felt like they did when I was running. Completely full and puffed up. I would watch the clear tube snake down between by breasts, and I would try to breath in as much as I could, and push the tube out as far as I could. I imagined my lungs getting so full that the space between my breasts would fill up, until I just had one big boob, filled with air. I think the medication they had me on kept me a little crazy like that. A few hours after I woke up they tried to take the CPAP away from me, but I felt like I was going to have another attack again. I could feel my lungs grow weak with each breath not on the machine. Like my lungs were slowing down to a stop. I had to use all of my concentration to keep my lungs opening and closing.

I cried, scared that the next breath was going to be the one last one. I cried that these damn doctors didn't care if I couldn't breath, they just wanted me out of their hair. I cried because my mom was still screaming outside the room, and it was taking all of my family to keep her calm. I cried because nobody was there with me.

But after two weeks of sitting in that bed, breathing luxurious air, I started to remember running. I started to remember the feeling of the cold autumn air rushing into and out of my lungs. The feeling of fullness was the same as the machine, but somehow better. Maybe because that feeling was deserved. Because I had earned each lungful of air when I ran.

I looked at my legs and noticed how flaccid they looked. I hadn't walked on them at all for the past two weeks, except for trips to the bathroom, CPAP held in hand. They looked lumpy. Like the muscles underneath had turned to mush.

I took off the CPAP, and focused on my breathing. I didn't let the fear take over. In my mind, I shrieked my mantra "IN TWO THREE FOUR, OUT TWO THREE FOUR". Long, deep breaths. They didn't feel as full as on the machine, but still I didn't feel like I was about to die. I kept this up for god knows how long. Long enough that I felt like I could breath on my own again. Long enough to check myself out of the hospital.

I remember leaving the hospital. I remember climbing out of the wheelchair and walking out into the cool air. I felt my lungs fill with real air. I imagined little trees on the inside of my lungs, brown like the leaves on the street, puffing up as the cool air blew past them. Puffing up and sucking in as much as they could. Turning more and more pink with each breath.

I couldn't believe the exhilarating feeling I was getting from this. I started to walk. My breathing getting a little harder, after not exerting myself for the past while. But my lungs were getting stretched out. I couldn't stop the feeling at all. The need. I picked up my pace a little, jogging to the end of the driveway of the hospital, and around the corner onto the country road. I could feel that feeling again. The feeling of fullness, but this time so much more gratifying.

It was then I decided, that there was absolutely no way my doctor could be right about this. Something that felt this good, this healthy, couldn't possibly be that bad for my lungs or for me. I ran as fast as I could, for as long as I could, stopping every once in awhile to relish the deep heaving breaths I needed before taking off again. I don't know how long it took, but I ran the whole 15 kilometers to my apartment. I collapsed on my bed.

A few weeks later I went to a new doctor. This one was younger than my usual one, and seemed more enthusiastic. The first thing he told me was that my last doctor was an idiot. Not just an idiot, but was probably completely outdated. It had been proved over a decade earlier that exercise was not only not harmful to my condition, but probably helped with the symptoms of cystic fibrosis, specifically because it excercised the lungs. I never went back to my old doctor. It was probably for the best, a year later he lost his license in a malpractice suit.

I am still here, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I can still hear him snoring softly beside me. I always felt conflicted about his snoring. As much as it kept me up sometimes, he also put up with my drooling. It got pretty disgusting, sometimes the entire pillow I was using would be drenched. But he never seemed to mind, or at least never let on that he did. I watched the sheets draped over him, rising and falling with his every breath.

I wonder if he really appreciates every breath for all it's worth. Probably not. I never told him about my condition. The most I've ever mentioned was that I have to sleep with my mouth open, just because.

I don't know how he can sleep. This is the first time he has slept fully clothed in months. He almost looks more peaceful than he normally does while sleeping.

For every night, for the past year, nearly, we had been making love, hoping for a child. We had been together for nearly three years now. We had decided we didn't really care if we ever got married or not, but we did love each other very much, and wanted to have a child together too. But after months of trying with no results, we both got worried. But we were also scared of what the doctors might have to say about it, so we put it off for a long time. But last week, he came home late at night, and told me he had seen a doctor about infertility. He had gotten tested, and everything had checked out for him.

I saw my doctor last night. That's when he had broken the news to me. That in normal cases of cystic fibrosis, infertility is a possibility for women, but because mine was so mild he had been hoping it wouldn't be an issue for me, and since I had never brought up having a child to him, he had never mentioned it. He then confirmed that although I wasn't actually sterile or anything, that it would be exceedingly difficult to have a child. Not only that, but since I already suffered from cystic fibrosis, that there was a very good chance that our child would have it too. In fact it could have it worse than me. He said my boyfriend would have to get tested for carrying the recessive gene for cystic fibrosis. If he did, it'd be a one in two chance that our child would also have cystic fibrosis.

The walk home from the bus stop to our apartment was long. Long enough that I thought of how I would break the news to him.

"I went to the doctor today"
"Hmm?" He looked away from the TV to me.
"Turn that off for a second, we need to talk"
"What's the matter?"

I looked into his eyes. So much concern. I felt myself begin to cry, but I stopped myself.

"I went to the doctor today. He said.... he said I was sterile. That I can't have kids, that I'll never have..."
It was the farthest I could go without crying. But just after the first sob, I felt it. The shortness of breath. I hadn't gotten an attack in over a year, but it was back. Kicking me when I was already down. I fell from the couch onto the floor, holding my neck. I think he shouted, and grabbed me, cradled my head. I don't remember. I just remember slipping back into my old mantra, trying to instill calm to my body again.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. 


After a few panicked breaths, I started to regulate them again. Slowly I came to. My head was in his lap, and he looked down into my own eyes, frightened, phone in hand, about to call the ambulance. I reassured him I was okay, that I must have just fainted. I had never been around a person who had fainted before, neither had he, so he bought it.

We talked for hours after that. About children. About alternative options, like adoption, or in vitro fertilization. We talked about what we wanted out of life, what we wanted for each other and ourselves. We didn't come to many conclusions. Neither of us had thought very hard about the future, all we had known was that we had wanted kids.

We didn't make love that night. We both went to bed without much talking. He didn't kiss me good night. Not that I really noticed either.

And now he's sleeping, without any other cares in the world. Without fear that his next breath might be his last.

Standards

We shoot for the stars in what we want.
Unwilling to settle.
Wanting that which we clearly do not deserve.
We can't even be happy with what we deserve.

And we feel bad.

Sometimes you need to break down your insecurities
Sometimes you need to let yourself live with abandon and verve

You need to not worry about tomorrow

About who might be hurt by the mistakes you know you're making

I scurry about quietly
Hoping your gaze doesn't graze my coat
That I don't become transfixed in the spotlight

Train

I thrust my arm and shoulder into the path of the closing doors, forcing them open and squeezing through. I can hear the conductor shouting from a few cars down, but I'm already inside. I double over and stare at my feet, drawing deep breaths after having sprinted several blocks and flights of stairs to make the train. My one shoe is covered in a white crust and has a tear right down the middle of it.

Damn.

After a few moments to catch my breath, the train lurches forward, nearly sending me tumbling into an elderly woman's metal pushcart. I apologize profusely, and scan for an empty seat. The air in the car is slightly moist, like the inside of a recently vacated gym locker. I scrunch my nose up, trying not to think of the army of bacteria rushing into and out of my lungs, and instead focus on finding a seat for the long ride home.

I walk to the other end of the car and find one right at the end by the window. I sit down heavily on it, the worries of the day pulling my shoulders down, slouching me down, and leaning my head down to rest my chin on my chest . I am not sleepy, but almost immediately I close my eyes, hoping to vanish from this day.

I can hear the train clicking beneath me. The gentle hum of the engines as we speed along in dark tunnels deep within the city. It rhythmically jostles left and right, almost like a baby's cradle. Even though my eyes are already shut, I feel a deeper darkness wash over my eyes. I crack open an eye to see a figure approaching, taking a seat beside me, but cannot make out any other details. I shut my eye again.

On another day, maybe I would open my eyes, and even acknowledge their existence with a nod. On another day maybe I would even strike up a conversation. But not today.

But I realize just as quickly that I am at the end of the car, at almost exactly the same time I can feel them sit down beside me. I feel a plastic bag swing into my shin lightly, but solidly enough to have woken a sleeping person. A hand touches my shoulder immediately, probably as an apology. The hand is just as quickly retracted: they have probably just noticed they have disturbed a sleeping man. They are probably reassessing the situation, trying to determine if I am homeless or not. I definitely look the part. I haven't been shaven in a month, haven't had a haircut in even longer, my shoes are a mess and my clothes unkempt.

It must not have mattered, because I can feel them shift to get more comfortable, probably also readying for a long ride home.

Curiosity and bashfulness crash together in my mind. One trying to pry my eyes open, to at least get a glimpse of who this person may be. Bashfulness holding them shut, scared of having to strike up conversation for the length of an altogether too-long train ride. It's a very close game of who might win.



Eyes Shut Tight: Bashfulness

Cooler heads prevail. I know I wouldn't have been able to take a good look at this person without also acknowledging their existence. The thought is immediately shelved as the train makes another jolt, and then begins a turn. My head rolls from my chest to my shoulder. My thick winter jacket has a very padded collar, which acts as a half decent pillow, propping up my head into a manageable position. Almost comfortable. My mind thinks back to the stresses of the day, but quickly they become smaller thoughts, and then fragments, and then nothing.

The train gently rocks me as I drift into sleep.

I begin to dream. Of course, its about work again, and I replay all the trials and arguments of the day. My unconcious mind languishes on how things could have turned out at each moment of the day. But soon I can feel the dream give way to a new theme. Suddenly I am on a street in the spring. Walking along a cobblestone road, with a woman walking shoulder to shoulder with me. She is resting her head on my own shoulder, and her fingertips are grazing the back of my hand. It's a slightly awkward way to walk, but nice all the same. I try to look down to see her face, but it is shrouded by her dark hair; black with flecks of dark red. It smells of... I'm not even sure. A flower I am unfamiliar with, but exudes femininity. Of fragility.

I begin to realize that the sensations are a bit to real. Another jolt of the train brings me back to reality, and I become aware of the sensations that have not dissipated with the dream. Still there are fingertips touched gently against the back of my hand. Still there is a person leaning against my side. Still there is a head resting heavily on my shoulder. A head likely full of sleep as well. A head covered in hair that smells of a flower I am unfamiliar with. My eyes are still closed. I cannot see her, but I am convinced it must be a woman. I peek out a bit, convinced she could not possible be awake. I see a small pale white hand outstretched beside mine. Her coat is a dark grey and woollen. It looks rather comfortable. Her face is shrowded by her dark hair, but the gentle swell of her breasts under her heavy jacket on her petite frame betray her sex.

I close my eyes again. My heart picks up its pace and solidly drives the sleep and cobwebs from my mind. I begin to imagine fantastical realities of this mysterious woman beside me. I am smitten. I haven't yet even seen her face, and yet here I am. It's probably just the smell of her hair that has done this to me. I want to do something about this. But she is asleep.

And then a thought sprouts in my mind. The delirium of a waking mind has not yet completely left me. With the courage of a sleeping man, I reach my hand out to hers, and grasp hers within mine, knitting my fingers between her own. I can feel her hand tense, her head lift up just a bit. I shut my eyes just a little tighter, as I feel her lean forward. Her gaze warms my face, leaving behind a tan of embarassment, but still my eyes stay close feigning sleep. Still my hand is within hers.

I anticipate her hand withdrawing from mine. But it doesn't. I can feel her thumb gently caressing my own. I'm not sure if its a unconcious gesture on her part, or one to gently wake me up, but I remain asleep, enjoying the touch of her hand.

A few long moments later, I can feel her head return to my shoulder. Again my nose is met with her scent. I feel her other hand come up and over mine to cover it, to enclose my hand in both of hers. I smile in spite of my self, sure that she could not possibly be watching my face.

I drift, finally, to sleep.

We remain like this for a long while until finally the train comes to a stop. She rouses slowly, both hands withdrawing from mine as her head also comes off my shoulder. She squeezes my hand once, perhaps to wake me, but still I remain asleep. Still, I am too scared to talk to this woman, even if I had spent the last few hours holding her hand. But it's not just that. There is no way she could live up to the angelic personality I have built up in my mind. The beautiful, calm, serene person I had been fantasizing her to be in my dreams with her hand in mine.

She gets up. I can feel her looking at me again. Perhaps trying to figure out if she should pursue this. Again I can feel her hand on my shoulder, gently nudging. But I don't acknowledge her.

I feel her hand retreat. Her soft steps walking away and out of the train.

I would never see her again. I wouldn't even know it if I did see her. But that was okay. We had our perfect moment on a trainride home. Like passing ships in the night.

I could not have been happier.



Eyes Flutter Open: Curiosity

I open my eyes, squinting at the sudden brightness. I turn to look at the figure sitting beside me. She is seated but facing away from me, a hand to her ear and whispering softtly. Probably on the phone. Her jacket looks soft and fibrous, like a tightly knit warm woollen blanket. A bright sort of grey that somehow doesn't appear drab. Her hair flows down from her head, a sheen that is usually reserved for aquatic birds gliding along the water.

It is subtle, but it becomes immediately obvious that she is gently heaving. Although this end of the car is empty save for the two of us, I can notice a man halfway down that is staring at her with a look of concern on his face.

She puts the phone back into her pocket and turns to face me. For only a moment I see the expression on her face: eyes red, tears streaming down her face, mouth curled downward. But only for a moment, before she realizes the sleeping man beside her is now staring directly at her.

She laughs once, apologizes, and wipes away the tears from her eyes. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small packet of tissue for her. She thanks me, and blows her nose once.

"Rough day?"
"Oh no, not so bad. Don't worry"
"I'm not so sure, seems like you had a bad phone call"
"No no, it was nothing."
"Oh... okay then"


With a bout of embarrassment I turn away to stare out the window. The gray of the concrete tunnel walls rush past us. But the embers of my curiosity are now fanned by empathy for this weeping woman.

"Well, look, you don't know who I am, and I don't know who you are. For all we know we will never see each other again. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine and I completely understand, but if you do want to, I can't promise to have good advice or even know what to say, but I could at least listen to you."

She looks at me with hesitation, weighing the option in her mind.

"Fine. But it's a long story."
"That's fine, I'm on here till the end of the line. You?"
"Me too."


Again she looks me over. Perhaps she still thinks I am a vagrant of some sort. It must not have mattered.

She begins her tale, but it is far shorter than she had advertised, and pretty predictable. She had been with her (now ex) boyfriend since she had started university. She had lived a relatively repressed childhood in her parents home and as soon as she could move away, she did. Her boyfriend was a senior when she met him in her freshman year, and she fell madly in love with his long untamed hair and chiseled good looks, and rebellious streak.

"He was just... perfect. He was anyways. He even was caring enough to wait for me until I was... ready. You know? Most of my friends weren't virgins anymore and always told me their boyfriends were just rushing to get them into bed, but he wasn't like that at all."


Her honesty was incredibly disarming. Almost intimidating. She explained in vivid detail the nature of their more amorous moments, of how alive she had felt. Of how loved she felt every time. Of the care he showed for her happiness and comfort. Of every move, every sensation, every look he gave her as they made love in the beginning. Brutal truth like this you would only expect to hear on someone's deathbed, and perhaps not even then.

"But then he graduated, and got a job outside of the city. It wasn't so bad at first, we saw each other whenever we could. But suddenly the schoolwork piled up for me and the late nights at the office for him. Gradually he had less patience for me. Just less time for me in general"


But still they kept up their relationship. What had started as a dive into the deep end of the ocean for her into the great unknown of love had become a shallow pool and was quickly drying up. But of course she held on. How could she not, she loved him so much, even if he didn't show it back as often. And then, she graduated.

Four years they had weathered a relationship strained by differing schedules. But she changed that, she got a job in the same company as him. Suddenly she felt the fire of their love again. They had lunch dates, they travelled to and from work together. She had been scared that he would grow tired of her, but he didn't seem to mind.

But a month after having started, she began to hear stories from some of the other women at work. Stories of a man who was the singularly most passionate man they had ever been with. A man whom many of the women at work had stories of. Of late night romps in different hotels, and even of surprise encounters in bathrooms and offices around the building. She refused to believe they could all be talking about him, until today.

Today she had run into a group of women giggling near a closed door. As she approached, she could hear whispering coming from inside. A man and a woman. A man who's whisper she could recognize anywhere. She left the building without another word, and boarded the train.

I had been listening to her story intently, but unsure what to say. As predictable as it had been, I was at a loss of how to respond.

She reached into her bag and withdrew a plastic bottle. The label had been torn off, but as she unscrewed it, the smell that assaulted my nose told me instantly what it was. I held back a gag as she took a swig of what must have been the hardest liquor I had ever smelt in recent history.

Wordlessly, she gestured it towards me. Still not knowing how to respond to her story, I instead took a sip as well, cringing at the taste, and shuddering as it slipped down my throat, leaving a burning path behind it. My whole belly warmed instantly.

She took it back and took another swig almost instantly, and passed it back to me. I tried to remember if open containers were legal on trains, or public intoxication. The thought was interrupted by a second shot of her alcohol.

We passed back and forth two more times before I decided that this had to stop, lest I find myself in a ditch somewhere tomorrow morning. But again she thrust the drink towards me. The fire in her eyes betrayed an anger that must have been boiling up for several hours now. I didn't want to become a victim to it, so drink I did.

I'm not sure how long it took, but eventually the sizeable bottle was empty, and the car was no longer as stable as it once was. I was trying desperately to hang onto reality as I heard her sobbing into my jacket shoulder. I'm not sure why, but this made me angry.

"Shut the fuck up! What the fuck is wrong with you!? This is your FIRST boyfriend! He was obviously an asshole, and you hung into a dead relationship years after it had died. You should have dumped his ass YEARS ago, and you didn't, and you're just as guilty of this relationship ending as he is."

I tiraded for a good while more. Even as I said it, I didn't agree with all of it. Some of it I knew I had said for dramatic effect, and some of it felt more like drunken rambling than actual lecture. But it was all enough to shock her out of her sadness. At least momentarily. I finally came to an end.

"You're hurting my hand."


At some point, I'm not sure when, I had taken her hand into mine. And now I was squeezing it so hard that her pale skin was now an angry red. I tried to withdraw my hand immediately in surprise, but she held on.

Again, she wiped away her tears with her other hand, smiling, and she looked out the window away from me. The train had left the underground and was now racing along at night amongst trees and sleeping houses. She turned back to face me, her eyes and cheeks both red, likely from a combination of too much drinking and sadness, and she smiled again. But this smile, looked much more genuine and shy. Her eyes twinkled just a bit.

She turned away again, but then put her head on my shoulder, hand still within mine. Her thumb softly caressing my own. I wrapped my other hand around hers, and leant my head against hers. Emboldened by alcohol, I kissed the top of her head once. Through both my thick jacket and hers, I could feel her breath quicken. She squeezed my hand once more, then looked up to me, still smiling, staring directly into my own eyes. She drew in a bit closer to me, close enough that I could feel her warm breath on my own lips. She closed her eyes, and then closed the gap completely. She pushed just a little too hard, her aim slightly off, and poked her nose into my own. Her eyes flew open in embarrassment, perhaps realizing that not only had she just tried to kiss a stranger on a train, but she had also missed. But I smiled back at her, and went in myself.

The alcohol rushing through my body quickly quieted the sensations that were no longer relevant. The train became silent to me, the rocking of the train went unfelt. All I could feel was her hand trembling within my own. The urgency building in her lips. The smell of her hair filled my mind. I put one hand behind the small of her back, but the other kept her hand clasped tight. Her other hand cupped my cheek gently. She lifted her legs up and over my own, almost half sitting across my lap, wrapping an arm around my neck, never once her lips breaking contact with my own, her tongue reaching out to twist around my own.

I don't know how long we kept it up for, the alcohol's effect growing stronger and stronger within me, fighting my conscious to try and fall asleep, to pass out. Eventually it won, and everything went black.

I woke in the middle of falling forward, throwing my hands in front of me just in time to prevent injury. I felt a hand hook under my armpit and pull me upwards.

"You're kind of a lightweight aren't you" I could feel the humour dripping in her voice. I turned towards her, grinning in as dumb a fashion as I could, and gave her the sloppiest kiss I could muster. She laughed and pushed me away, her voice sounding like the clinking of champagne glasses.

"Come on, you need some coffee and a meal"

Every day another brick is lain over my head
Cemented and sealed into place
Holding me down
Until finally the last brick is placed
And this home is finally finished for all your love to flourish in

Sometimes its not about doing the right thing
Or having the right words
Its just about understanding the same feelings
And feeling lost together

as brown velvety syrup fills the veins
fear of the dark slips painlessly into the fluorescence
and all those real fears that hide from daylight
come out to play out on the tabletop and amongst the empty glasses

Silkspun

slowly the spider creeps over my big toe
Stopping once to savor the bead of sweat rolling down it
And then tethering itself before jumping off into the abyss
The pearl of water splits and hangs
And he glides away on a parachute of water

All souls, no matter how lost, have that one light flickering within

I break apart, 
losing chunks of my skin as it flakes away, 
my blood congealing like rotten milk as it falls from gaping wounds. 


Bones whine and crack, 
muscles dry and tear. 
They too fall away from me. 
Pieces of my body lay strewn in a long winding path. 


Until all that is left marching onwards is a single speck of light. 
Within it are not my memories or thoughts. 
Only my essence. 
My emotion. 
The love kept locked in for a lifetime, finally exposed to the cold air. 
A love I carried for a lifetime hoping it would find you. 
A love that now lives without the impurity of flesh, left with a simple singular purpose. 


To love.

There is no Tomorrow, but a series of Today

Tomorrow will never come. 
Today just decides he wants to be something else when the sun rises again. 
So too should you try on a new version of yourself with each new day, until you find yourself. 
And then leave him behind as well to find someone else new.

The phones don't sleep at night

My phone is not my tether to an alternate reality, where invisible neon lines connect me to the Great Barrier Reef and the tops of Everest and wherever else your flights of fancy take you. 


It is simply near me in case you need an ear to cry into at night. 


Kept away from me so you don't hear my own whimpers. 

My moonlighting requires a cape

I wake early in the morning and rest late at night, so that for a few hours, my life will be as it was without me wondering what it is you are upto. 


So that I know you are safely in the bed I left you in.

All of the lights

I close my eyes and the universe past the clouds open up to me
I tumble backwards from the inside of my eye sockets, into a lake of warm milk, tasting of vanilla and sugar
The sky is a bright yellow, not from the sun, but from the million million stars apparent to me all at once
But I can see the edges of the universe, the stars reflecting off of it clear and hollow
Just milk and stars
Like the inside of a lightbulb
My feet burn with energy, expanding and oozing out of my skin as red hot lava and hardening to a soft chocolatey smooth cake
My eyes melt away into gooey sorbet dripping down and into the milk
No longer necessary as the universe unfolds to show the razor edge line of past melding into the future
A record needle following the line of time, playing out everyone's story as they pass into and out of the focus of the needle
It suddenly all makes so much sense, why we are what we are and do the evil we do
But the next beat of the bass enraptures me with a new reality

Slip of pink

I turn my eyes away, 
ashamed to behold that which I covet the most, 
lying uncovered before me, 
without guard or veil. 


I am waiting for the beating that is sure to follow

Repressed Memories

Something new has broken in your mind. 
I will spend my next lifetime searching for the symptoms of what you did to bind your reality back together, 
So I may find my place in it once more.

I don't give a fuck if it's raining

The guitar slips a bit in my hand, but I tense my grip to hold it steady
I stare out into the darkness in front of me, feeling the bated breaths of thousands of people
Staring just for me
But no, it's not just for me
They are waiting for the same thing I am waiting for
That perfect first thrash
They are waiting for the bass to drop, for the solo to start
They are waiting for the music they have waited so long in horrid weather
They are waiting
And so am I

A friendship worth a 1000 pictures

Our friendship is worth more than you or I. 
Who are we to destroy something the other holds so dear for such a fleeting thing as love. 
Our love to each other would explode like fireworks over a lake, 
but our love for each other will keep each other warm in the winter of our lives.

Artifact

Love is dead in this city.
It feel like a lost relic.
An antique worth only a few p,
Left sitting on a shelf collecting dust.
Just waiting for you to come back.

Tension

We talk quietly, hushed whispers that barely clear the hum of the air conditioner.
This is all so familiar, so natural.
Innocent.
Your face mirrors mine: calm, long with the worries of the day. Ready for bed.
But I can see that something else is in your eye.
A secret longing that glows just above your pupil.
We are unaware of the riptide lurking below.
Just waiting for one of us to dip a foot in.
Just waiting to drag us far and deep to a place we have come to fear yet secretly wish to find, together.
Your eyes close.
Your whispers turn to mumbles.
Sleep takes you.
I am not far behind.
Safe for one more night.

Cliff

Mornings used to be my favourite time.
Well, really, my favourite time used to be when we first woke up.
After a long night of quiet conversation, whispered secrets, and love.
The love was always caring, but passionate.
He was such a handsome man back then.
But those mornings, they were what I really cherished.
After we got over each other's morning breath and crusty eyes, and just lay in each others arms.
But then of course school ended, and we moved to the big city, and got jobs.
The bags under his eyes grew heavier and grey, just like the flab of skin over his belly.
But I didn't mind that so much.
Then the time we woke up was just the time that followed the time that we slept.
Sometimes that was preceded by some run of the mill sex.
Most times it wasn't.
But I didn't mind that so much either.
I just was sad that our mornings we used to love so much were gone.
At least the mornings I loved so much.
Now he was out of bed before I was even awake.
He wouldn't wake me with a kiss anymore.
By the time I felt his weight leave the bed, he was already closing the bathroom door.
The first time I would see him in the morning these days was in the kitchen.

I used to cook him breakfast.
Back when I was still looking for a job and he had just gotten his at the newspaper.
He would complain about his work, both the big and the little things, and I would hang on his every word.
He loved to share with me before.

Now that I have a job that starts later, we interact for only five minutes in the morning.
I don't even sit.
I stand and drink my herbal tea.
The tea I drink to supplement the workouts I do, both during my lunch hour and after work.
To keep my body toned, fit.
Beautiful.
For the man sitting across the table from me.
With his nose in a book.
Chewing on a bagel.
His jowls bouncing with each clench of the jaw.
His messy combover slowly falling back over.
Not saying a single damn word.
He never tells me what he is thinking now.
But it's okay, I don't really mind.

Well that's not entirely true.
I know what he's thinking a lot of the time.
A lot of the time he is angry with me.
I never understand why.
I know I sometimes make mistakes.
But I can't just change overnight.
In fact I shouldn't have to change, should I?

No, he's usually right.
I should be a better driver, and a better cook.
Just a better wife in general.
He gets angry and frustrated and I know why.
I can be a better person and I know it.

I sip my tea and watch the wall.
His face makes me a little sick.
Just a little.
But I still remember the handsome face I fell in love with.
I see it buried there under all the fat.
Just like how his love must now be buried too.

I've counted all the tiles on this wall more times than I will ever need to.

Casual Smoker

I forget why I did it in the first place.
I forget what it did to you.

Insecurity

When you're in a relationship you have to let your guard down.
But I don't.
I'll keep watch for both of us.

From out here

From out here there is no blue sky to accent your eyes. No gentle thrum of the morning traffic to underscore our unspoken affection.
There isn't the distraction of our lives to wipe out our fights and nights of passion.
From out here I can see the sun in its naked glory. The stars are vast and plentiful.
From out here I can see you for what you are. And I love you all the more for it.

Post Karma

There is a safe, filled with all the things I meant to say to you
And on the day I finally pass, it will burst open, and you too will know all the terrible and wonderful things that ever paced through my mind.

Toll Bridge

The surface routes feel too traveled.
As common as they are, I will stick to the underpasses.

A Handful

When it comes right down to it, the wind shifts too quickly and you are a million specks of dust. 
I couldn't take care of you if I wanted.

Drunk Dial

I would hope in my moment of weakness someone would console me too.
But life is rarely that empathetic. You can only be left to look after yourself.

Lineage a Million Generations Deep

I am standing on the corner of Wabash and Smith street.
The river runs orange underneath.
The bridge rumbles with every late passing car.
And with all the reminders of reality,
With every person a walking example of it,
I still question if love can find its way today.
I lose confidence a little more every day.

Do the right thing

Sometimes I get bursts of motivation.
There's a hundred thousand new things I want to do and try, and ways I want to better my life.
But then TV turns back on, and I become complacent again.

First Breath after Coma

My breath has abandoned me
My heart is beating like a battering ram, slowly pushing out of my chest
It knows what I want
It wants to leap up out of me and join you on stage

Goosebumps For the First Time

My face flushes red
A tingling sensation spreads from my cheeks to my forehead and crawls down the back of my neck
The hair on my arm raises, and the skin puckers
It feels like the beginning of a brighter day, after a month of clouds and rain
Like the first flake of snow on a long walk home
Like wondering if at that very moment, they're thinking about you too.
Like falling hopelessly in love for the first time all over again.
Like nothing could be wrong ever again.
It feels like this is how life was meant to be all along.

Sheltered Existence

For once, stop and think who you are living your life for
Really, who?
Then think about what it is you are doing,
and realize you haven't done a single damn thing for them
Start living for them today

Rumbling

The drums run through the night.
They thrum as dreams become our temporary reality.
They lay awake as we sit asleep.

Hobbies

We are all special
Simply because we are not

Brad

I want to believe you are more than just your words and ideas
That you are not just the bullshit you say and do
That you aren't the asshole everyone else seems to think you are
That there's more to you than superficial nonsense

I want to believe you have emotions
That there is some deep hurt that made you this way
That you are selfish because no one was selfish for you

I hope that you will someday come to your senses
And see that all this hate for you, you bring onto yourself
That life doesn't need to be this way
That, for some reason, I love you anyways
That for now, you will have at least one friend

Jenny

I lie awake by the pool
Lying on a wicker lounge chair
The weave of the intertwined wood cuts into my cheek
The uncut hair on my face digs into the material, make it hard to shift easily
But I don't feel it.

I think about her driving.
It seems silly now, the things we argued about. 
She would take a wrong turn, and I would snap
I would accuse her of always doing the wrong things
Of trying to get us lost, of wasting my time
I'm not sure why I ever made it such a big deal

My left hand hangs over the edge, fingertips grazing the water
My middle and ring finger are wrinkled from having strayed there too long
The pool is undisturbed, except for the small waves emanating from my fingers

I remember her brushing her teeth at night
She had a daily routine. 
Tongue scraper, floss, brush, mouthwash, and final inspection
Then she would come to kiss me good night
But every night she would forget to do one of those things
For 10 years, she never managed to get it quite right
And only when she kissed me, would she realize which part she had forgotten
She would have to go back and do it a second time just to get it right. 
I would always laugh when she went back to the bathroom. 
I did the first few years anyways. 
It was cute. 
Then it wasn't anymore. 

The sun is low on the horizon, hiding behind dark gray clouds
My eyes feel cloudy
Like they have gone unblinking for some time
I unfocus my eyes on the pool
The sea foam blue tiles of the deck intermingle with the soft blue glow of the water
My house, dark and impotent, crouches down by the path leading here
Separated by a small hedge brush, meticulously kept and even.

I remember the last day I saw her. 
It was like any other morning. 
At least any other morning those days. 
She made my coffee. 
We wouldn't look at each other, I with my nose in a book, eating my morning bagel. 
Her, just sitting there, drinking her tea. 
Staring off into space. 
Never once did I wonder what she was looking at. 
Never did I ask what it was she saw on that empty lily white wall. 
I left the house without even saying a goodbye. 

I pull my hand back for just a moment, to take another swig from the glass of scotch nearby
I would wince at the taste, but my taste buds have long since given up on telling me what to do

Her funeral was surreal for me. 
I had been so angry at her. 
I can't believe now how angry I was. 
I wanted her to come back to life, not because I wanted her back, but so that I could tell her off thoroughly for giving up on us. 
I remember seeing her body in that coffin, and feeling such... hate. 
I remember her brother putting an arm around me, and me knocking him out cold. 
I remember being in the hospital, after her family had come at me. 

I return my fingers to the water
Hoping that a small wind will pick up
That the water will reach up and swallow me whole

I remember the first time I met her. 
The first time I ever saw her smile
A smile that had caused all the blood in my body to run just a little hotter. 
She had come along with another friend of mine. 
I remember my friend leaning over, and whispering in my ear "Damn... she's cute"
I had laughed, and said "Never in a million years would she look at a guy like me"
And that's right when she looked at me

Willful Ignorance

There are so many things for us to do
Places for us to go
People to meet and things to say
That can help us forget about that one thing we don't want to think about

Negative Reinforcement

Every time you're happy, it's proof that things could be better
But every time you're not, it's proof that they will always be the same

Anxiety

To every cloud there is a silver lining
But to every sunny day, there is a day of rain soon to follow

I guess you could say I'm a glass half empty kind of guy

Maybe In Another Time, Another Place

I am not sure what it is I want
All I know is I want it with you

Hear No Evil

We are both screaming for each other's attention
But we're both speaking in tongues

Every Morning

Sometimes I think I shouldn't get out of bed
The drop from the mattress to the floor can be terrifying

Monument

Every time the wind whispers to the blades of grass
The statue that has stood here erodes a little more
And pure water seeps from the cracks
And when the statue finally crumbles, there will be no water left

Oblivious

You live inside of a telescope
Looking out the wrong end
Wondering what those tiny people could be up to
While their steps thunder nearby

Weeping Willow

In this tangle of words, there is enough to pull out the greatest apology ever written.
I will keep searching until I find it.

Hermit

There is a special place that you can go
Where a man sits in silence, surrounded by the animals that pay their respects to him
He will listen to all of your problems
And he will answer them with a single syllable
But only on death's bed will it ever make sense

Romeo, Romeo

What if every time you fell in love
Or even felt a glimmer of something for someone
You told them about it
What if you never lived with the regret of "what could have been"
And instead with much more of "what never will be?"

Cathartic Symphony

I am the smile that is five minutes away
I am that nostalgic feeling you get as you stand at the subway platform, the gust of wind pushing and tugging at your clothes
I am the guy at the bar who pushed your shoulder just a little too hard, but you let it pass anyways
I am the picture tucked deep in your wallet
I am the dreams you get, on those certain lonely nights with the fan on and the window wide open
I am the shrieking children playing under splashing water, in the park on a late summer day
I am that dark place in your memory you dare not go alone
I am the name of everything you want in life
I am that missed opportunity you swear was the biggest mistake of your life, that you will never make again
I am the one shot of tequila too many
I am the words you left unsaid
I am the smile that is here right now
But I am not here to stay

Day Terrors

Lying awake, atop the sheets
I stare at my ceiling in pitch dark
Vestiges of color form to make order of the black canvas above me
But they never take form
Never take root

Paper Moon

I left the light on for you last night
I fell asleep, sitting at the kitchen table
You woke me, and kissed me
And left a smudge of someone else's lipstick there on my lips

Shōji

I built a house out of paper
So that it would be easier to burn down when the time came

Royal Seal

I put this stamp on everything I own
Why do you think it's not on your forehead?

The Girl in the Tutti Frutti Hat

With just a sparkle in your eye
My heart flutters just a little higher
My body feels just a little more weightless
The room slows down just a touch more
You have ensnared me, but you have already begun to walk away

Stone Sillhouette

I trace your outline onto the ground
So that there is some evidence you were here
It's not for my benefit, or yours
It's just to see if I can make you as permanent in this ground, as you have become on me

SR & GF

We inscribed our names on a tree
Knowing that our love would stand as tall and as proud as it did
Ignore that countless others have scrawled their own names here
We will not be like them
Because here, as I finish scratching the last letter of your name
You pull out a match, and set the whole thing alight

Our love will not be tall and proud
It will not last forever
It will be bright and alive,
and consume our lives until it fizzles out in our old age

Garden of Peace

For every heart you've ever broken, I will plant a seed
For every tear you've ever let shed, I will water this plant
For every time you've let your anger loose, I will shelter this from the storm
For every time you brood moodily in your dark room, I will watch the stem grow
For every time you flirt with that other woman, I will prick a finger on a thorn
For every time you fall in love again, I will have another flower, ready for you to pluck once more

10 minutes thinking of my desires

I want...

Photoshopped

Sometimes when I see you, you look a little out of focus.
Like the rest of the world is here and real, and you have just been overlayed on top, messily and haphazardly. Like you don't belong here.
Like I don't belong  here either.

Appearances

As ugly as I may seem
I am still only giving you the good side of my face