I write this in the hours that follow today afternoon, the last minutes of which I spent with a glass of cranberry juice and eight minutes of John Coltrane under the sun, a break from the busy monotony of doing nothing.


There’s a sweetness in the familiarity of your face, like the sugar I can feel dragging the coffee down my throat. Its warm. I run my hands all over your nose and lips, fingers over you arched eyebrows and cheeks, and it feel like strolling through the streets of this city we moved out from a decade ago. This place is more special to me than it is to anyone else, but that is a secret only I am privy to.
Yes, this is a place I know. The smile is new, but I don’t mind it altogether. Change comes, I guess.


I see the grandfather from last Thursday and grin. He does not. He is not my grandfather.


It rains in fitful temper. The scent of the first spring rain hits the earth. A sharp metallic odour rises sixteen floors to where we are arranged around a dining table to act out today’s play of domesticity.


Running through the familiar roads and tracks of tears to your chin, reading this map trying to find you again, you make me want to love life here where I cannot live. I’m looking for you but I can’t remember where I left you last.


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