These things are like a storm front brewing. Somewhere over the horizon - there they are, piling grey on grey, apartments, mountains, rolling, re-arranging. Of course, nobody sees them, but me. I don’t live on an earth all spinning on an axis like you. Mine is flat, this basement a place to see the world, and see the world I do. There. Those clouds. You know them.

Not clouds anymore: strings. I couldn’t untie these. Instead, I cut them, painful as it was. Tucked them away when I was done, under my clothes. They smile, don’t they? Not the fibre of my being, I mean; the sackcloth, the ashes (the dress pants, the shoes?) Happy, almost, as if to say that I’m not feeling raw around the edges. Of course, you do the same thing. You’re just not as good at the watercolours as I am. See this charcoal? It means I’m feeling fine! Someone - believe me…

You’re sitting on a swing. I don’t know why anyone would capture your fingers, or your arm, or half your face. Smiling, halfway. I can’t tell what the rest of your face is doing, because it isn’t there. My imagination tells me that right now you’re looking for something good in life to smile about. What that means, of course, is that you’re practicing your brushstrokes.

I’d show you - really, I would. But I’d have to get that close, and I’m sick of the photographs. I have a few undeveloped. Something about Toronto, but not three by fives. A mall, maybe? Could be. Crumbling buildings? Ah yes. A storm front gathering? Most certainly.

I crumble slowly, that’s all. Gather slowly. Bits of me tumble onto the paper every now and again. You’ve even seen one or two. But for every one or two you’ve seen, I’ve got twenty more. Thirty, even. All bits of concrete, a wall built of me. It’s over there. It’s between us.

Not clouds, buildings, or strings now. Music. A minor key. Did you notice how often I use that chord? It’s because it’s the only one that fits into that place you were. It’s almost like a limb missing.

Here, I’ve been honest. Did you like that? It’s not that the month has cured me or something. I’ve got gangreen, and the aspirin doesn’t really do much. Or maybe that’s what’s lodged here (I’m pointing at my throat).

I wrote a song today, about you, another one. Nobody knows it’s about you, because I used our secret language. Oh - you thought I’d forgotten? Unlikely.

Finally, not a song. At least, not one finished playing. I’ll tell myself the final movement’s all been worked out, but it hasn’t crossed that line yet. You’ll need to push me off a building to get that point home. And yeah, I wish you’d taken me up on that offer, too. Things that good rarely come. I wonder. I wonder if they go.

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