The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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12. Queen Street

Your melodious voice rang through my ears as I was walking down Queen Street

the evening before you died.

You were saying how you loved the snow, but also the summer’s breeze,

and the ocean’s scent, but the flower’s petals.

To me you were this glorious human who had everything together

and loved iced coffee on a day in winter.

The sun tinted your brown locks to the colour of copper,

and my, you looked lovely that day.

It was 2 degrees Celsius, and we were freezing outside, but the warmth in between us

managed to keep us afloat.

I’ll never forget what you wore that day, because oh, did it match your eyes.

That beautiful, mossy velvet tore away from your ghostly complexion

and more towards your irises did it focus.

More and more often, I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from yours;

for lack of better words, your eyes were the answers I was searching for.

Your voice humbly sang our song from two years ago,

and I, in a less harmonious tune, mimicked back the poetic rhyme.

I am falling unto my knees, now, on the earth of Queen Street,

for I knew that when that car killed you, you were already dead inside.

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