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  • No. I wish I could. You came in my dreams last night.
    It pains me and my chest bleeds, constricts, I'm not sure,
    but it hurts and I'd wish you would stop.
    I see your face, your hair, you, a shadow, I know,
    but I want to call you, message you, and I wake up, disgust
    in my mouth, sour and distasteful,
    you remain on my tongue.

    I dreamt of you and I have not forgotten,
    but why do you visit me unless you miss me too?
    Somewhere, perhaps, you are waking up with dry acrid mouth,
    murmuring, morning sickness, and all
    my Zen seems hollow, childish, and I don't wish to see you.

    Yesterday, I sat on the beach. I took photos. I saw a little girl,
    in a swimsuit, running, as little kids do, shifting a little,
    tipping side to side,
    like a little boat, riding the waves.
    She reminded me of another time, another girl,
    I managed to catch her on my camera,
    a piece of time, painted glee,
    in the sand that molds my hand.

    I carved a small nest, my feet sinking deeper, a moat,
    a wall to my body, and I lay, watched her and an armada of sails,
    a flight towards more sky, and a deluge of indian boys,
    splashing, baptizing their friendship,
    Ganges, except Canada.

    I remember you, another beach, the last time we came,
    coiled, pastel shades and dove-soap,
    and I couldn't for the life of me, remember,
    remember what I learnt over five years ago.
    The clouds sucked, no - skiing down the mountainous landscape,
    an oolong tea, held both palms to paper cup,
    and when I drank, the paper tasted firm,
    a barrier to the moist tea,
    and I thought I would never forget. How could I?

    Glimpses and slivers, you flee in the periphery of my eye -
    and I can't hold you. I can't catch you.
    Please. Please.
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