7 songs

I was reading Truly Madly Guilty

in my t-shirt and underwear

under the blankets

away from the -25 Montreal cold.

When seven songs arrived

at my doorstop

that killed me in a slow

musical dance.

Each one had a story to tell

like a poem

each voice had locks and keys

to a mysterious track

in Old Montreal, the one I would

stare at every day for seven years

while I worked at that bar.

I want to smoke now

kill my lungs

but it has been two

and a half years

I have not killed myself

that way. I could drink instead

and throw up my pain.

Your hand is somehow

in my heart and on my skin

and your territory

is not even near mine

yet magically you

appear at my doorstop

with seven songs

of heartache.

You light me up

and I believe again.

 

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