I Decided to Leave For Montreal in January

It seemed like a good idea at the time,

to go back.

I wanted to be taken back,

taken in,

her dressed-up arms again.

I wanted apologies,

flowers, 

forgiveness,

to lay down forgiveness 

like a rose

To be foolish

blind, drunk,

on wine, on music,

on porches, in parks...the parks.

I wanted, to hear my city say

I love you, I love you, I love you too

I love you most of all.

I still dream about her, 

Montreal.

The winding, iron streets 

I'm searching for my old apartment at night

to find, 

she's not mine anymore at all.

She's not there anymore

at all.

I don't dream of January.

The ink-black nights caked with snow-paved roads,

trudging over that bridge for miles,

Pulling suitcase from bus to train to metro, 

to him.

Or the dirty bachelor apartment,

the lonely mattress on the floor

the lonely, take-your-breath away lonely,

the home-sick

lonely.

Or the drive home.

I don't dream of running out of rent,

quickly packing the car,

or how she knew to come during a snow storm in May 

to get me. Or how when we reached Ontario,

the clouds suddenly parted,

and out came the sun.