I don’t get to see you smile anymore,

except in pictures of Dieppe and Ottawa

and those towns just hurt me now.

Are you staring at the other side of this wall?

Or do you get to see right through me now?

My heart feels bloated,

hollow.

I’ll let the ink dig through my arms

while the music pours through my ears and brain

and I write words on faux-white electric screens

that should be said to your crying, longing innocence.