My old friend,

hidden behind the city lights;

under the dusty pages of a paper from

October two thousand and four;

veiled in velvet covers;

beneath the memories of

rubber ducks floating in

the bathtub;

ice in your single malt;

inside the box of past tense.

Silence.

And you decided to invade

my dreams.

Why punished me with

news on the misery of your

loved ones and

their breathless existence?

What terrible

punishment.

Why?

Silence.

I only started to forget

the scratches in your voice,

the structure of your lips,

the smell of your hands.

I now smell betrayal.

Shhh.

Don’t take me back to my agonies,

as I refuse to separate;

to ache;

to lose.

Leave me with

my sips on my

Sauvigonon blanc,

dripping down my throat.

I long for a hand-in-hand;

and a smell of hyacinth

to raise paradise.

Full stop.

– S

Toronto – March 25, 2012