Fully Dressed

It was you in that dress

and it was the most perfectly wonderful thing

I had ever seen.

An easy existance

I want to exist in your world.

Blue

Pack your suitcase: your old Levi's, the sweater with the elbow patches. Get in your car. Turn on The Calling. Drive. Pass Campbell River, Courtney, head through Parksville. Stop in Nanaimo to stretch your legs, use the bathroom. Stock up on Sour Patch Kids and slushies. Keep driving. Duncan. Victoria. Pull over. Park. Knock on my door.

Tell me you you're sorry, your lips stained blue.

On mornings like this

On mornings like this

I do the crossword puzzle in bed, tangled up

in your sheets I try to see where your words overlap

with mine.

While you sleep, I decipher clues about two of the same

considered together and a person

with whom one has a strong affinity.

Six across and eight down; there isn't always room

but I fill your name in as the answer

to every question.

The theme is always the same

and I know that when you wake up,

you'll take your copy of the newspaper and do the same.

Permanent ink to fill in all of the blanks

where you and I connect.

Obstacle

Despite the walls you build, I'm still here, waiting on the other side.

Nostalgia

I think that I'm over you but then I remember

the way your eyelashes felt against my cheeks.

And I'm falling all over again.

Sweet

I remember how you ate strawberries just so that I could taste them when I kissed you. I didn't think that you could get any sweeter.

In this moment

When I tell you that I have to leave,

university, visas, family,

you take a map, crease and fold the world

until oceans fall away and Vancouver and Warsaw sit

side by side.

In your hands, the miles shrink and disappear

and we're together, the distance

somehow less daunting. Poland no longer a far away world

in which you don't exist.

And I am comforted by the crumpled, worn map

tucked safely between your hands.

Fill in the blanks.

Dear _____________,

I'm writing this for you, just like I write everything for you: the blogs, the poems, the notes, the scribbles. Even the doodles in the margins of my notebooks, they're for you. You are a hundred crumpled scraps of paper, the folded corner of The Times, smudged ink on the inside of my palm. I've been searching for you for a long time and in that time, I've had a lot to say. And no one to say it to. So I write. Novellas, short stories, poetry and prose. I fill my notebooks with you in the hopes that one day you'll come and fill in all the blanks.

With love,

__________________

West Coast

We fall in love on the West Coast

to the sound of waves and rocky shore lines.

Hang our hearts from the branches of giant cedar trees

just to feel the wind coming

in off of the ocean.

Lay back and rest against abandonded driftwood

as you trace the outline of the coast

across my waist. I can taste the Pacific

when I kiss you, salt and sand,

an infinite expanse of blue.

At night, when the sun sets

and the stars come out, you tell me that you can see

Andromeda reflected in my eyes, my shoulders,

the milky way.

We sleep to the sound of heavy rain drops

against our tent, sleeping bags zipped

together for warmth.

Writer's Block

Is the way you feel as you surface from a dive; the panic that you're too far from the top with too little air in your lungs. It's the ache in your muscles and the tension in your limbs. It's the sound of blood pounding in your ears; the feeling of desperation. The way your lungs burn as you reach the surface. The exhaustion that comes from struggling to stay afloat.

Four Letter Word

Love is more than just a four letter word. It is finally finding the person whom I've been writing about. Every sonnet, every eulogy, every ode. It is Neruda and Bronte and Wilde. Love is every letter of the alphabet and it's spells out something beautiful.

Breathing

I want to lay along side your shoulders, hips,

hands touching, just to feel your skin

against mine.

Lost in Translation

Andrew, you talked to me in a foreign language. Greeted me some mornings with a sigh in your sleep, the tug of sheets as you twisted away. I tried to guess the meaning of your down turned lips, wondered what it would take for us to overcome this language barrier. Translations, interpretations, only made your silences louder. And when we finally did brake through, Andrew, I only wished that we could go back to the quiet. On days where you wanted to talk, all I wanted to do was turn the radio on, sit peacefully, hand in hand, and listen to Damian Rice, Patrick Watson. Instead, you hurled words at me, nouns and verbs shattering against the apartment walls. On these days, everything was lost in translation.

l'heure bleue

it's dusk and the Paris skyline is smudged blue

grey silence like the muffled sound of traffic

beneath la Tour Eiffel we pause to listen

the pulse of the city is slow and rhythmic

grey silence like the muffled sound of traffic

it's the feel of two heart beats

the pulse of the city is slow and rhythmic

the weight of your body against mine

it's the feel of two heart beats

we exist in the in-between, no darkness

the weight of your body against mine

no daylight, only the smell of your perfume, your skin

we exist in the in-between, no darkness

a single perfect moment

no daylight, only the smell of your perfume, your skin

as the day folds into night

a single perfect moment

beneath la Tour Eiffel we pause to listen

as the day folds into night

it's dusk and the Paris skyline is smudged blue

Island Life

Naked in his studio, Jonah covers my belly in blues and greens so that, soon, South America spans half of my rib cage, Brazil rising with every breath. He forms mountain ranges, the Andes grow strategically out of stretch marks and in no time Costa Rica is on the verge of disappearing into the dip of my bellybutton, the Arctic cast into shadow by my breasts. As he works, Jonah talks to you, tells you in Portuguese how I've been craving pasteis de nata, almonds, the ocean. In Spanish he describes to you Chichen Itza, the salt flats of Bolivia and the beauty of La Amistad. He wonders what you'll want to see first. I tell him Canada, feel your tiny feet against the coastline of Vancouver Island, your heart beating, tremors beneath the surface.

The Call to Prayer

In Istanbul, the men

whistle as you pass, let their eyes roam

down alleys as you loose yourself

amongst bins of olives, dates,

wonder through the bazaar following the scent of turmeric,

sahlep, cinnamon bark. When you get hungry, stop

to talk to weathered fishermen, eat Balik ekmek,

fish sandwiches, and browse

rows upon rows of antiques, fragile

ceramics and ancient books bound in soft leather,

stories of the Ottoman empire and sultans, women

and children that spill onto the streets, fill the city

with the sound of heavy Turkish voices, Adman

echoing through the mosques,

the call to prayer.

You don't search for love

it finds you tucked away

in a corner booth at the Mint, drinking mojitos

and gossiping, or beside the last empty seat

on the number eight bus, shopping bags

piled at your feet. It finds you

when your eyes are closed, arms spread

to feel the breeze coming in off the ocean

at Ogden Point, as you wait in line

to order your morning coffee at the Black Stilt,

when you first hear the voice

of the man standing in line behind you.

white

when I'm with you, the world is white,

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

moving as one, your fingers exploring

the edges of my hairline, the contours of my breasts

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

we exist in a world of cotton sheets and white washed walls

the edges of my hairline, the contours of my breasts

here everything is bright and smooth

we exist in a world of cotton sheets and white washed walls

pause to listen to the sound of your heart beating,

here, everything is bright and smooth

our bodies echo in the stillness

pause to listen to the sound of your heart beating,

with the weight of you around me, fill the room

our bodies echo in the stillness

there is no gossip, no alarm clocks, no stop signs

with the weight of you around me, fill the room

there is no colour, no sound, only the feel of skin

there is no gossip, no alarm clocks, no stop signs

when I'm with you, the world is white

Messy

After it rains, find the perfect spot and burry my feet deep enough that I can't move. Up to my ankles and stuck. Love so thick I can barely wiggle my toes. When you ask me what I'm doing, I'll tell you I'm making love pies. If you say that I'll get dirty or ruin my clothes, I'll explain to you that love is messy. I don't care if it stains, cover myself from head to toe, smears of love between my fingers and streaked throughout my hair. And if you come close enough, I'll toss love at you. Great gobs of it, flying through the air. Watch it splatter against your t-shirt and hope that you'll dig your hands in and get dirty. Hurl love right back.

Morning

The colour of the sky before the sun

has fully risen, the damp

of dew against bare flesh. The world

slowly awakening, the rush

of frigid air as you pull back

the covers, cold water

hitting your back

before the shower is warm.

Capture

I want to write you into my life, capture

the feeling of your fingers against the curve

of my spine, the damp curl of hair

at the base of your neck and the look of your face, flushed,

blood beneath your skin, the sound

of my heart pounding

in my ears when you stand

close enough that I can feel you.