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artists lovers Old MOntreal poem poetry soul mates streams of consicousness walking writers writing

wandering by the port

you wandered inside my mind

and got lost. you asked me

why do you write? because

i feel the words the way

you feel the sunshine on

your skin. because i want

to tear apart the demons.

because the words i hide

are the ones that come back

like a magician’s tricks.

because i told you, i have

no fucking choice. he woke me

up at midnight with violent

blue eyes and soft gently hands

only to thunder my soul with want.

i don’t want to read your poems.

i love everything about you and nothing

to do with what you write.

you know half of me.

you know all of me.

you know you can’t escape

yourself, baby.

he makes me crazy

with wanting and i tell him

everything. truth serum is

my vodka at scarlet

restaurants with

mobsters ordering

salmon tartare as if

they know everything about

fine cuisine, but nouveau

riche stay under the radar

no matter how their lambos

look in valet parking. try harder.

want less. the trick is to

keep breathing in tiny

made up gardens looking

for truth in empty champagne bottles.

it’s bullshit and Old Montreal is

holding my memories the way it

held my heart. we walked into

the pub and once again

I was the barmaid and you were

my man. nothing much changes,

just rust is added, some wrinkles,

some new buildings, old joints

still around to draw me closer

to you. i can’t escape anything

about your manic attraction.

i don’t know who i’m trying

to fool.