I cannot escape the sound of scraping metal

Low whistles blowing through open windows

Alone in the hills of Nova Scotia

It is early Spring, call it late Winter?

Perhaps somewhere in between.

The snow has melted.

The trees are bare.

Just me and Gloria in this giant old house.

And yet, always there.

Always the sound of scraping metal, and

Low whistles blowing through open windows.

Back in the height of summer,

I am sprawled out on a mattress in Montreal.

The sun is slowly setting

And I am in an almost empty room

Stealing the seconds

From every remaining ray.

Impending darkness,

Solitude.

The sound of scraping metal

To take me away

From so many empty days.

I miss your stories. Speaking of ways in which you proved your worth to men of nobility; Joys found in free treats; Bursting hearts over wrinkles; Through your own wit and charm, all that which you've accomplished. 

I miss your mannerisms. I miss the way your eyes would fall far when something [shouldn't have] hurt you. I miss mornings. I miss biking through city streets, feeling your presence somewhere in the shadow of the same mountain.

But 

I don't want to miss feeling inadequate, falling short of your dreams of me. 

I don't want to miss disappointing you, having not kept up 

With where you'd have me be.

Today I subscribe to my own dreams of silly old me.

And hope that an old he only sees what's beyond my fancy dresses,

Knowing that I'm perfect in my becoming something other

Than any other's dream.

I have found new places.

New spaces.

This story starts with sun.

Turn off Spring Garden, walk through a courtyard of old brick buildings and trees. Lock bike, door is locked. I can see a small field on the other side, with boys playing frisbee. Walk around, up winding stairs, to find the secret grasses. Back door propped open with bunged up stick.

Walk through, up three flights of stairs. Door to a library. Walk to back corner, through small door. Finding self in a book shelf. Keep walking. 

A wall of window, overlooking cemetery and harbour. I can almost see the market from here. Men in communal space, studying on large tables. Two levels, the second more a loft than anything. Find winding staircase to upper level. There, a sea of young bodies, studying from text books with papers spread all around.

The sound is swallowed by the carpets and books. The florescence is drowned out by the sun. 

A sea of tables.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Au7gGhIM65g