Biting into a peach after having rubbed off all the fuzz in an attempt to still nervous fingers
sitting in a car that's still too big and leaves enough space to feel lonely
the juice dribbled down my chin and it occurred to me
"this feels and tastes and dribbles like a Canadian peach."
Maybe it was the flavour, or the setting, but something about it reminded me so much of a peach I'd once bought and devoured on a streetcorner somewhere in Montreal, on some day where I'd decided that I deserved fruit.
This place is still too large and at some moments far, far too lonely.
But such things pass. With every sigh I bite down on an urge to clamber into my car and escape to Beaver lake, or to that marshy pond in Brussels
and as soon as the sigh has emptied from my lungs it leaves with the faint sweet clamour of
"just wait it out, you know it gets like this every time, every time".
And sometimes the bed feels too strange and I am afraid inside my skin, afraid of this space, afraid of moving
and sometimes
oh gods
sometimes the grin is so wide it splits my face into fine cocaine lines.