friends notice that hair
has been cut, not recognizing length
that has grown. there’s a difference.

i asked you once about the side of
the matchbox, how safe they
were, really. my apartment
burned to the ground & i
carried all that was left
in boxes eventually
broken & sent to
the curb.

the apartment took with it a story
that only you knew. we pretend we
are friends but, really. the difference
is not hard to see.


i’ve spent so many decembers not making resolutions. when it was just me it was so easy to not think of the future, or to just think of my own, and to know i didn’t need anything more than i had. even now, two years later, it’s still strange to think i might have something to work towards, plan.

there are the basics: stop smoking, cook healthier meals, get better at baking, read more books, write more often, go for walks along the canal even when it’s cold or out of the way. then there are loftier, more abstract goals that don’t feel attainable: don’t go crazy planning a wedding, keep up with correspondence, actively maintain relationships with my friends, take on more craft projects for the blog, improve my wardrobe, buy a house with a yard and sloped roof and a porch.

then there are wedding day & marriage goals: be a good wife? not fuck up my vows. not trip on my dress. be less sarcastic and more gracious. try not to offend anyone. don’t buy shoes that will hurt my feet even if they’re pretty. save my money. try not to look awkward when opening gifts. mind my manners. don’t yell at anyone. try not to get offended too easily. remember to thank everyone when making a speech.

don’t think about any of this too much. remember to thank my friends for not forgetting to be my friends.





it’s been a month. a long, empty month. on the personal side of things it’s been busy: i got engaged, i’m finding myself at times overwhelmed (in a good way) at work, i’ve been planning the wedding and taking trips out of town, i tried to quit smoking (i didn’t succeed, so don’t ask).

& i’m writing, only i’m not writing poetry.

it’s been empty because of what happens between all the busy, the evenings ahead of me dotted with nothing. no painting my nails, no doing my laundry, no cleaning my house. getting the christmas decorations up was impressive, i guess, but everything else feels so stagnant.

i keep waiting for the chance to make it better. un-erase it, fill the colour back in. in the meantime i’m lonely, and feeling detached from the people i love. i want a room with everyone in it, where no one can hear a word except for exactly what’s meant for them but can’t seem to be said.

Photo 2014-11-30, 1 05 26 PM

in the spirit of lists, reserved so often for february, i have written a list for december.

1 melting snow
2 my breath on the glass, too early in fall
3 crumpled cigarette packs in the backseats of cars; a bottle of juice
4 making (difficult) decisions
5 the tour, still the tour, but what do i say
6 apologizing
7 asking for favours
8 hands inside sleeves, of sweaters, sweaters like blankets, blankets like old conversations with friends, friends like a memory, a memory of hands inside sleeves of sweaters
9 vintage books, lace, ribbon, high heeled shoes
10 ohhh chainsmoking, a habit, old habits
11 not forgetting, despite lack of words

the open mic this month was particularly good. the people i know are particularly good. they aren’t all here and i find i notice that fragmentation more and more as winter edges closer, but they are particularly good. i will never not notice.