Category: Poetry

There’s a bar on the corner of Davie and Seymour. And it stands there defiant, though dormant and boarded. Dark on the inside and dust on the floor. It doesn’t let anyone in anymore.

The brown of the coffee that matches your eyes.

Met you in the aftermath of the great war.

In one hundred years, when I’m gone and buried, my lonely bones, they will still carry the glow from being loved by you, exactly how we were supposed to

My ship has steered north since the day I was born. And I never doubted, never found myself torn.