November in St. Henri

Cold bleeds through in spots
at first, like a leaky fountain
pen paused in thought;
resting on the page.

Soon it will seep through my entire jacket,
one cold conducting
surface in close contact
on the way home this Thursday.
Some nights I can put up with it all
long enough to take the metro back west,
having skipped an hour or so
of staring straight down the barrel
of a giant magnum pistol.

If you fall,
spiraling inwards,
it will be towards a end
that you won’t see coming.

I’m distracted
for a short while
by the way she smells
until the glow softly fades out,
and we’re just two more people
awkwardly regaining our breath,
embarrassed to be lying
so close
together in the dark.

Love and the plethora
of great natural forces,
all lost without logic.
In this city on the mountain
our sunrise
bears the same colours
as dusk eternally falling
all over twilight,
our entire lives lived
without spring or summer.