in.vul.ner.a.ble | Version 1

My old friend,
hidden behind the city lights;
under the dusty pages of a paper from
October two thousand and four;
veiled in velvet covers;
beneath the memories of
rubber ducks floating in
the bathtub;
ice in your single malt;
inside the box of past tense.


And you decided to invade
my dreams.
Why punished me with
news on the misery of your
loved ones and
their breathless existence?
What terrible


I only started to forget
the scratches in your voice,
the structure of your lips,
the smell of your hands.
I now smell betrayal.


Don’t take me back to my agonies,
as I refuse to separate;
to ache;
to lose.

Leave me with
my sips on my
Sauvigonon blanc,
dripping down my throat.

I long for a hand-in-hand;
and a smell of hyacinth
to raise paradise.

Full stop.

- S
Toronto – March 25, 2012