Tag Archives: nostalgia
whispering.
it makes me want to travel through time while sitting on the rooftop of my dad’s apartment, across the shingles and the aluminum and the all-seeing church and doomsday towers, or wear 1920s wedding dresses, or be in the upstairs … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
bubbles.
this is always my favourite way to start the cold, wintery holiday season. sit beside the breakfast table, think about your troubles, pour yourself a cup of tea and think about the bubbles. you can take your teardrops and drop … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
filter.
at 5:54am and the east side of toronto you crinkle with the paper of my cigarette, wilt with the filter and come down so hard with the rain
Filed under poem tree
at tables.
in the first couple weeks of my first year of university i saw the in/words office for the first time, and the defunct printer, and the ham sandwich that i think was justin’s. i sat in collett’s crowded 19th-floor office … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
dreams.
seventeen, the closing door of stories told, and done your fear of you the way you are, foreign yearning keeps you, bluest veins and nerves
Filed under poem tree
fourth floor power shortage.
it’s the first day now, it’s finally here, it finally came. it was a long, lazy, lovely summer and it’s over. i have one year left to go and the rest of my life, eternal summers with the worst weather. … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
the old apartment.
there’s something unsettling about my dad’s news that he’s leaving his apartment. the apartment he rented just so my sister and i could come and live with him when we had nowhere else to go. the winding staircase, the dark, … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
bff.
i just saw the most amazing thing on… yes… facebook. and, in order to share my little story i guess i have to admit that i was creeping photos a little bit. but what can i say? they’re posted and … Continue reading
Filed under monologue
main-macnab
our pottery unwound by wooden ducks and swans in restaurant mirrors, their exchange of rings passed on through documents, through files, through testimonies shaped by ever-careful hands
Filed under poem tree
