They tell me to write about seasons, I suddenly loathe them and all their possessions

I have the desire to write of nothing but you and phone booths and the empty space

in between you and I, which we’ll suffocate as best we can.

You’re summer and I’m autumn, but I’ll be summer for you,

I’ll let myself collapse into the stomach-turning warm breeze when it comes

to remind us of half-deserted diners, cashboxes kept under counters,

bottle blonde waitresses who can’t see anything beyond a sea of pink leather seats —

whipped-cream haze hangs in the air as a feeling rather than taste

though I taste a syrupy, sickening awareness of the ending.

What do I have to leave? I don’t belong to anything

I have no bags to pack, no bedroom to take a mental freeze-frame of

I’m alone,

and you never are,

you’re surrounded by noise, it’s your life’s work

and mine is silence, words curated and coveted, but never said aloud.

I crave a life with you, that we can freely take and give to ourselves

just like I’ve told you,

with cigarettes, sweet & low, stolen gasoline,

solitude so saccharine

family and friends can make up the best and the worst.

existence unverified by anyone but us—

you said that line was your favourite.

I separate it.

I know

you’ll never leave toronto snow for california roads

you’re playing shows to screaming crowds in new york and washington

in my mind we’re living sarasota summers

soaked in sucralose

you sing your covers, the songs are almost yours.

Cassette in the dash, Lou Reed, heavenly arms,

we come to terms

with some unreachable aspect of life

I could only ever seem to find when I was alone.

I understand

you’ll never leave her for the other woman.

I have nothing to leave,

you have nothing to run from.