You can look back,
and you’ll see dust.
All that potential,
so badly managed…
But don’t you mind-
let those frustrations reshape
into what they always meant to be,
It’s the distance that I can’t take.
So many memories -so tasty and graceful…
I am so fond of our times together…
I adored that squeaky laughter when I bit you.
When we danced to the groove of gravy.
And made tuberous love as a means of asexual reproduction.
I miss you, poutine.
But don’t be afraid.
We’ll always have Québec.
Follow me to the snow,
where we belong.
No path is the wrong path
even though they insist it is.
Sometimes there’s no exit-
sometimes we can’t really tell…
but they are jogging aimlessly
and we are their diversion.
I’ll hate to say goodbye
because as the snow melts
and our memories blur,
only dirt remains.
But maybe green will grow
against all grain and will.
Whatever future brings,
I won’t forget… our special path.
When everything has been said and done
and to hope is just impractical.
When there’s no way to keep going
and we can only look back.
Rust can’t be enjoyed when it’s the only thing left.
No more depressive songs will do.
It’s the end of the rail line.
And it’s safe to hate when it’s over.
All the paths you could have taken,
all the stations that weren’t visited
and all the trains you’ve mistaken-
At least the fight is over.
Streams of consciousness were led to oblivion,
and everything went down the sink-
hour after hour, day after day.
It would have been another flood
but there was no hole cover.
Nor need to forget.
Not all the water can be contained.
Nor all the memories should.
Oh, I hate those cataracts of forgetfulness.