Invested

If we're still lingering,
afloat,
don't count on me forgetting to write you the perfect lines that point from every direction.

You know I've always loved each road from here leading to crashing stop signs in the sand.
The way islands force you together like plates to take long walks off a short pier
wetting ourselves to the skin with paradox.

You know I've never felt as trapped or free as when I'm at the end of something above high tide.

Just imagine if these pregnant pauses were markers of what we've invested here
The distance of lazo road to church street. Courtenay to Comox. Victoria to Port Hardy.Cliffe to 5th and everything pooling inbetween Comox Ave and Ryan Rd.
The either always lonely or always reflective bike ride home, and the carrides that were sometimes offered and accepted only for the novelty of saying goodnight to honest faces.
We've always been in walking distance to the realization that we're not all as awkward as we thought we were. As we think we are.
I want to retell and re-raise our secrets muttered between lampposts, intrevenously fed to internalizations in our bellies.
I want to carry them to term, sweep them up and flick them off like the dew on ungulated hooves ,
forgive them for blooming slowly as the buds of spring cherry trees.
It has always been time to personalize pains and celebrations that we forged somewhere irrelevent, somewhere mute, somewhere
where we've allowed the town to speak for us.As if we all interpret this experience identically.
You know we're cognizant that that has never been right.

Last night I wanted to promise that what we've hidden here is beautiful. Fucking gorgeous.
That it's still crumpled in our fists and thrown out like gradeschool notes that you find later in a trashcan, adressed to you and perfect, intended to be read unintentionally.
And sometimes when the weather is right you can feel it in the steam rising up from the concrete, or over a shallow cup of coffee that was expectingly unexpected to be poured out with deep news.

Let me count on you to count on me to get my lead out.
Because you know a miss is as good as the length of an isle,
and so we owe it to our undefined futures to never stop investing in these once seemingly temperate histories,
these fucked up and obvious but hidden insecrecies,
these strait up faults, the important parts of our stories,
the ones we've finally admit had ran too deep beneath our surfaces.