Montreal, 5AM. A sight I get to see only a few days, twice a year. Walking through the quiet streets on a Monday morning, hearing birds chirping and feeling the chill on my skin, crinkles adorn my face as my lips lighten up. My steps resonate as I walk through the subway station. I can hear every cracks and pops of the machinery hidden in its walls.

Soft piano plays in my ears, the roar of the subway cars overlapping its sounds. This is the Montreal I love. Populated just enough for a chance to study those around me. So quiet once I leave those man-made machines for the outside world. The big city does sleep, and I like waking up before she does to witness her slumber. For the early bird I am, seeing her stripped bare of her night life, her heartbeat is as familiar as the faraway town I grew up with.


University, library opened 24/7, I’m studying for one of my last exam. Two more awaits, with two assignments to turn in. It’s a bittersweet countdown. This first year is almost done. Soon, I won’t see the people I met as often as I did, our ways splitting in different branches of interest. What I once found uncomfortable became a new comfort zone, ready to be left behind, a soft blanket I’m not all ready to quit. Yet, excitement bubbles inside when I look at what the next year have in stock for me, new knowledge to fill my insatiable brain, new writings to play with.

I’ve been dreaming this journey for so long. Being on it’s road, feeling ends and beginnings rolling behind each other, I ask myself : what will I do once it’s done? What will I do when the dream is fulfilled, added to the reality of my experiences?

New dreams awaits. Old ones come and go, whispering « one day, maybe ». I’m walking through a labyrinth without a map, faith my only ally. She knows where I’m going.


Walking the streets of Montreal at dawn is as eerie a feeling as is walking through the labyrinth. I feel alone, yet not lonely. The air is cold but I’m warm inside. My perception of the colours of the world is different under the sunrise, just as is my perception of the future when I can only glance at images of what I want it to be. Everything feels soft and ready to disappear, but then, the sun shines higher and everything becomes tangible and real. Time speeds up as the city wakes up, welcoming another day on her glass and concrete. I find an empty bench at the park, where I sit, close my eyes, and dream some more.


Rain. I didn’t know I missed it so much.

The wind is still cold but not enough to turn it into snow. Window open, letting the chill in, I listen. Spring sings in every single drop of water. Life is pulsing through the air.

At my desk, I sit, and ask how you’ve been doing. Your answer reaches for my heart, feather-soft presence wrapped around my soul.

My living space has been filled with mementos sent from you with love. Reminders of my path to you. Yours to me. My notebooks hold wisdom of the ages, knowledge of my self tapped into when I close my eyes, slow my breath and softly sing back to you.

The moment of bliss and quiet pass. I turn back to the noise of the world, peacefully looking forward to our next meeting.

I close my window and go back to work.


at the corner of two busy streets
I wish you were here

each vehicle
reminds me of the one
you were driving
when you left me
I watch them pass
praying they’ll reach safety
destinations you’ll never see

at the corner of two busy streets
I wish you were here

the flowers I lay
on the ground
of you, my only memory
you returned to the land
that witnessed your birth
your ashes nourishing
a soil I won’t walk on

the corner of two busy streets
the wind turned cold
you won’t be here again
’cause on the corner of two busy streets
one played too bold

in memory of the crosses marking the roads I traveled


We met last November. I fell for you. Pages were written about you but none ever made it through my screen. Those prototypes of poetry were just hitting at the surface of what I felt we were, what I knew of us. « You stole my words », I told you. Truth be told, I hid them away, for fear of seeing beyond the illusion we lived in.

Our love was made of gestures. Quiet moments of bliss and warmth. Your hands were made to touch me, but your heart was not to love me. And I knew. Oh, I knew. Ten days after we met, I wrote about it. Three months later, I was still praying for answers, ignoring I had them all along.

It was your touch. It lit something inside that has been drowned in sorrow and pain for so long. You knew how to listen to my voice, mute and loud, and touch me gently, so gently. I was afraid if I turned my back, I would loose that and never find it again. That was the problem all along, was it ? I spent more time in fear with you than I was in love.

In moments of loneliness, I saw it all, saw the dream, the illusion. And I needed you close, so I could keep that truth away, so you could touch me a little bit longer. I wanted more than your physical affection, yet it’s all I ever came back for.

You reached beyond the barricades of my body but I could never reach beyond the barricades of your heart. I woke up, unable to keep my soul quiet, even in the tender shelter of your arms. We deserved better.

It’s been a few months now. We were not a mistake. There was so much of us in the other, so much to understand. There never was a better place to be together than where we were.

Peace be with you, love, for it is with me.


reading his words
I feel his pain
feel hers
dual flames
trapped in their dance
both blind
to what lies beyond

I read his words
and cannot ease
the tension in my body
jaw set tight
my flame
we were the same
suffocating each other’s light
burning too bright
our end
our beginning
blurred limbs coloured in fire

I read his words
and look away
aching for them both
I turn to the understanding
and freedom
we found in our hearts
praying they will find it too
knowing they will find it too
their path away from ours

oh my love
how we have grown


There’s only one month left of its first year. University teaches me more than the mandatory knowledge needed to pass my exams. Within its walls, I found the missing pieces of me.

I used to think I would never write about politics, yet recently found myself yearning for a keyboard when thinking about ecology, education and equality. Some realities of history are seen differently from the picture I had in that suburban high school I went to. Photography and landscapes are the images that speaks the most to me in art history. My brain is as capable of logical thinking as it is of intuitive creativity, said philosophy. What I like and dislike find echoes thrown back at me and I listen. I listen.

There is just something about this place that builds upon the rubbles of that tower I once destroyed. I took them out of my backpack and now find myself in a simple hut in the middle of the woods. Life springs from every steps I take. It might be the magic of the mountain the campus is built on.

There is so much to learn about this world and I’m only swimming at the surface. I’ve been accepted in the program that will get me deeper in and, now, my future is made of « I will » rather than « maybe’s ». I can see the path of a career ahead, the house I dream of, the love I’ll keep finding on my way. The road ahead is full of light and most of it comes from me, from the decisions I trusted to take and those waiting beyond.

I found my truth and it’s shining back at me.