sometimes I forget that Manhattan is an island.
Montreal is, too.
I miss this place.
Rue Sherbrooke, too.
the trees are red.
redder than I have ever seen.
Le Plateau is alive.
Parc LaFontaine is talking to me.
pulling me.
so much so.
I text Kayle.
and ask if he can meet me.
say that sweatshirts are hope.
kick me in the face.
give me a bagel.
and call it a year.
we are islanders, I guess.