Jetlagged in Montreal

If my heart were to burst open right now, I don’t know what would pour out of it.

Maybe a winged-like bat creature, searching frantically, sonically for something to love?

Maybe a torrent of tears, pouring out of me and retuning me to the ocean?

Maybe an inky blackness, hiding in the cavities, slinking through the shadows, flattened against hollows and disappearing into the night?

Maybe a joyful song would burst forth, surprising all of us?

I don’t know, anymore, what to expect.

But I know by the fluttler and the ache that something is in there.  Something lives.

It is not a dried up moth, or a cobwebbed Miss Havisham hand.

Something in there pulsing, on edge, wanting freedom.

Let me the fuck out.

And one day I will.

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