Aug 13

We went whale watching

the skiff skipped over waves in the St. Lawrence

where green waters met Atlantic black seals, spotted & slick, greeted us

in our chunky orange suits sprayed with brakish mist and squinting sun-specked into the sea

trying to catch the elusive glipse of a whale fin.

Meditative & windswept.

Enjoying QC so far.

Aug 12

Do Quebecois crows caw in French?

Do their beaks, plucking the bright moon out of the sky, whisper in English?

We pulled into San Simeon as storm clouds battled the moon overhead, silent flashes of electricity illuminating clouds from within lig like flash lightbulbs popping under gauzy sheets.

Oiled wings slip by in the gloom, fleeing the unavoidable winds.

Aug 11

Montreal is such a strange silent city.

Mont Royale was beautiful.

The whole downtown spread out away into the distance, ship masts of buildings screaming to the sky

Aug 10 '19

I hunger but I'm not sure for what.

Approval?

Recognition?

Attention?

A ghost of my thoughts skims through the clouds as I think of what

might be

could be

should be

is.

I inhale. Exhale. Walls up.

Montreal's glimmer lies in its subtleties

The city is soft.

Soft spoken,

the chatter of pedestrians a mumbled hum

So different from the rancous chorus of Manhattan.

I think of how his feet traipsed this city weeks before mine.

I wonder if they s mine sit in his impressions

Like freshly fallen snow.

July 28, 2019

they say life is suffering

sitting under the fig tree that doesn't coalesce beyond a faint haze.

I don't think I will understand that for a while.

For now, this body is a prison of gristle & bone & taut ligaments

and I skim the ceiling above like an ever-floating peregrine

I want to write him letters of sweet words and subtleties, sealed with blood red wax and the stamp of my lips. I want him not only to want me, but to say so -- reverently. Truth reflecting in brown eyes.

I want to memorize the trace of his jawline under my thumb as we catch our breath between kisses.

I want to understand him intimately, like the back of my own hand, like the gentle curve of his smooth crescent nailbeds.

I want him to understand me and know me, and yet care for me anyways.

Am I in love, or in love with the idea of love?