There were variations in the chapter of mine that you became. Less whiskey and more wine. A changing of the guard.

You are lost to me now, somewhere in western Europe, drinking better wine and loving someone who knew what the hell you were saying.

I sleep under a silhouette of freedom - the illusion of choice, blanketed beneath the stars I'll never be, and the lives I couldn't live.

Sorrow is lost on the young. Wait until you have a few more years, then ponder deeply. Stare into the past until you go blind, and then tell me about your day at work.

Happy Holidays !

im in the Toronto airport
reading your words and others
thinking of what is
what was
and
what will be