Waiting

Time is the roman numbered clock at Union Station. The one that I ask you to meet me at the first time 
—the one you can’t picture in your mind but find anyway.
The crowd on the street is as fleeting as the excuses I made for you to meet me,
to love me.
The light is golden and I long to be encased—
with you in the inbetween of these city streets.
Normalcy closeting a vast architecture of the potentially complex.
Your lateness soothes my devastation, for ultimately, it is presence.
You are light and laughing and I will do anything
to be interesting enough to keep you—with me . . . 

Published in TOK: Writing the New Toronto, Book 1. Purchase the book to read the full piece.

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Toronto locations referenced in this piece

“Time is the neon signs flashing digital reminders along the arteries of the 
Gardiner. You are a portrait of deafening red tail lights, foreboding the emptiness that ensues with your absence . . . ” —Gardiner

“Time is the roman numbered clock at Union Station. The one that I ask you to meet me at the first time—the one you can’t picture in your mind but find anyway . . . ” Union Station