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.
And my hate of being away from you, poutine.
