A little prose and poetry about my first Canadian Winter.

All I can do is write about boys.

We don’t remember what it was like to walk for the first time our weak legs carrying our chubby body across the living room floor. We...

He smiles at me and then that smile is on my lips and then we’re smiling together and then our smiles are together

Then the magic of our exchanged smiles and glances would go unrealised and I would never again know the colour of unsaid words

The day I died, the sun was shining, the air was singing, and I believed cruelty could not exist.

We could and likely will not to find the words we need.

She can’t remember her voice. She chokes the girl’s name, “Suhaila.”

poetry is everything unspoken

I roar at the moon And the moon howls back.

There are no words because I know them all. I know the tricks and I turn them into mansions of metaphors.

Luna stands centre stage. They’re here to give context on creation before the curtains close.

But still, they could see past the windows.

do not kiss me on the cheek

You lived And you did it with meaning, and you did it with flippancy

War always fell on our shoulders.

Every dawn is the same.

"It taught me I would lose before the race had begun, It taught me I would love long after the race was run."