Osgoode

It is midnight on Queen St, and these blocks could pretty much vanish without me missing them at all.

He rushes through the subway tunnel, vying to salvage our last night. I walk faster, as though willing the footsteps behind me to disappear.

I can hear my name echo in the darkness as I take that lonely flight of stairs up to the surface of the pavement. A whirlwind of past conversations numb me as I breathe in the lit up streets.

In read receipts and haloed screens, those words had captivated me. The best of me and worst of us. And yet the horizons faded from pink to black, you nearly paralyzing me in the massacre.

And he wants to talk about the way he was, but I want to forget I ever turned around when he tapped me on the shoulder that Friday night, in a line for a bar on Queen St.

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