Beached on my tempur-pedic foam, feet balance Pinot. I shut the window blinds, the distant lights of Bloor Street. This summer, I will tan through osmosis. In an old pair of shorts I found a transfer of the 509 streetcar- when I took those two dollar vacations to see you. We circled downtown and Lakeshore, you butchering lines from “Manhattan”. Because of you I prefer Diane Keaton to Muriel Hemingway. You know all the dogs in my neighbourhood by name; Sadie, Zelda, Zoe, and George. They don’t wag their tails when I jog by, sensing your ghost running beside me. I count the minutes until the end of August, hands clutched on the mattress raft. Telling my tongue vanilla tastes like sand and looks just like suntan lotion. ✱✱✱
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