Poem: We Agreed That I Should Leave You in Toronto
We sit on the couch in your apartment and the clock
pushes August away, hands squeezing the thick air to rain.
Two hours left before my bus back to Kingston and we’re still dragging
songs into the last Spotify playlist we’ll make together. You slide
into a black hoodie and Icona Pop swells through your speakers.
It hits me that I’ll never kiss the cold off your face in the fall or
melt the red off your cheeks with my palms. I’ll remember the sweat
of June from your fingers, how I pulled salt and dirt from your knuckles
with my mouth. You pop the cork off a miniature of pear brandy, flash
a grin through your hood, excited to try the notes of something you find
peculiar. When I leave, you’ll keep the small bottle around
just long enough to fall for the taste before the brandy runs dry.
You lick your lips – this means you want me to kiss you. I shove your back against the couch, attempt to suck the grin out from your jaws. I gather the fleece on your shoulders in my fist, imagine the brandy smells like crunching leaves.
