day dreams.

She tends to heroin addicts

He writes songs in the basement

Haydenish sounds sneaking

Up the staircase

Both lost and hidden

Inside of dark corners

Pretending they can

Stand in the light

He dreams in the morning

Of packing lunches and

Bus stop walks

Waving little hands

At the back of a big yellow bus

She unwinds in the morning

With her first glass of wine

“Yo, we would make the dopest kids” he tries to engage

She just wept leaving salt stains on her pillow.

Midnight Lakeview

Instead of hiding in stalls

In the darkest parts

Of Bloor St. bars

He drinks coffee and

We order pie

I’m drawn to him

Like most are

To a rolled up bill

His eyes still white

Instead of red

And glazed over

His words aren’t slurred

We laugh over

What we might do

Who we might be

But it’s all real

His mouth moving

Unveiling stories 

Without a hint

Of beer on his breath

He tells me I’m pretty

And takes his last bite.

We hold hands at

Midnight, in a booth

At the lakeview.