zebrasindenver

Amber wine,

black eyes,

and a blood red bill

from a yellow bastard.

Even the driest hearts can be dampened by love,

or whiskey.

Istanbul, 130am,

They are shucking oysters in the street and you think of me,

And here i think you would never write, and here i think we would never again speak,

The last time we spoke, your order was short and your temper with me apparent,

And now, me, my beer and a message from the other side of the straight,

Oysters,

Montréal is grey and somewhat painted red,

So i sit,

Grey Montréal, Istanbul, and you.

Little white lady,

days fly, nights await,

you see me through movies,

you see me through dance,

you take me away and home,

when will you let me sleep,

never, and always,

your fiend.

Queen of Hearts of men,

The devils heartache in a suitcase stemmed from the death of our lords own poor child lucifer.

Hold openly your cries to jesus as he throws himself upon the cross and those that sail the sea to the end in search of my own dear heart,

that is broken into a million perfect pieces of love.

Into less, into more,

because of no gods, daemons or devils,

but you, my queen,

of my heart.

White sheets,

Gauloises,

a white cigarette lighter,

my white shirt,

and still your shit green dress hangs upon the dresser,

 bleach.

I can barely hate you enough,

for the way you loved me so.

Nor love myself enough to hate you,

to forever let you go.

The birds,

the dog,

the cars on St Laurent,

the rattle of bike locks against fences,

the rattle of bike locks over potholes,

the voices in the street,

and the steps of joggers on pavement,

and then me, quiet in my room above,

 with the sound of my fingers upon my keyboard,

and the all sounds of spring below.

Through my window from which i look down upon, my street

You and your boyfriend walking,

with dog so peacefully,

I see him, i see the dog,

and he looks at me.

I see your heart take a glance, as your eyes don’t move,

and i move back into the room,

with a smiled tucked neatly away in the corner of my mouth.

The window in the kitchen looks into the kitchen of a girl,

Who is looking back through her kitchen window,

And what she sees is me, torse nu, cigarette in mouth and broom in hand.

What? i feel she thinks.

We see each other every day, every night, we never speak, we never smile.

I see her smoking as she sees me get in from work,

never a single word,

after two years,

quite odd.

The window from my studio, also being the soon to be window,

of someone else,

looks out across a balcony and sees the mountain through sheds,

looks quietly upon two quiet lovers with a guitar between them,

and down onto the lawn, where my cat is watching so ever intently,

a small ball being bounced against a brick wall.

The parking tickets mount like your autumn leaves,

the taxes cost more than my rent,

and  the corruption seeps into the most humble of hearts,

the restaurants close each week it seems,

all the cafes are bitter or full of scenes,

your streets are full of rubbish and the parking signs are all written in hieroglyphics,

dog shit lines your pot holed streets,

and we dream of summers away in the sun,

but for you ma belle, i will never leave,

my city, my home, my sweet.

My sweetest Montréal,

my dirt stained romance,

my city of re-birth,

my wife,

my love,

my home.

Toi.