For Roshon
like a florist arranging his first bouquet—or a paver assembling
rocks to build a walkway—much like the one at Parc La Fontaine
here in Montréal—which we named after our friendship—after us
The Friendship Path—a verselet of love and the first fountain
that brought us together in Victoria two years back—it is the things
that exhilarate me which I recount to you—a stranger’s loud laugh
a bearded man—enjoying his book on a park bench—
placing the reddest fallen maple leaves in between the pages—
poems that I bookmark for you—venturing out into a book you lent me
late at night by the St. Lawrence River under a streetlamp
when I look at you my friend I’m reminded of the ubiquity of love—
a stranger dropping his Skittles on the metro—downpouring unlike raindrops
more like bells ringing so that I never lose sight of love—or you—
my hand extended to him—in silence—across the metro seats
as he pours the remaining Skittles into my palm—in silence—silence here
the only articulation of such love—how else to communicate love fleeting
on the Orange Line when love resists halting to the alphabet
much like your love for me—accelerating outside the confines of speech
love can be lost in taxonomy—which at times makes me unknowingly
want to free it from the obligations of time and diction—send it your way
and others’—unlike postcards—more like sparrows flying away from verse
much like how I embrace you—abruptly—during a conversation
your back against my chest—as we amble down Plateau Mont Royal
or when I sit next to you—in silence—by an ocean or a river
or when I collect observations throughout my day for you, my friend.
