I drove into your heart
with a cracked side mirror.
Landed on your skin
with my brakes squeaking rumours.
I kissed your earthly eyelids
sighing poetry, movie scenes, bad breath.
I touched my memories with words,
lying awake with a pen and paper,
sleep is a luxury for the living.
I am halfway into my palm lines.
The directions switched this past decade,
dimensions too abstract to make concrete,
yet with every flight to Japan you take—
We remain lovers wrapped in shedding skin,
I sleep, you wake. The temples suck my soul up.
I wake, you sleep. Your work sucks your soul up.
I ate you for dessert, naked, needy,
begging for my food. I drank you
for breakfast with my noodles,
you evaporated into temples.
You keep sending me pictures of the trees in Tokyo,
no sun, only branches and sloppy vines,
photos of 100 dollar wine bottles.
Reply with answers
or don’t reply at all. You are
on pristine one-way streets.
Stay in the future, plant a tree.
You have to live in your lane,
mine is full of detours. I am busy
being the poet
driving down Decarie Boulevard
in a Montreal snowstorm,
gulping down whiskey bottles
in the sadness of my writing room.
Photo: TheDigitalArtist
