if i turn it in to a fairy tale it can't come true

he's knows business and i know books. we move back to canada next year and work random jobs to figure things out, make some friends, see what's going on. we live in vancouver because that's where he's from and i can see myself living there, watching my parents' plane cross from calgary to victoria and knowing they're always close by (but never next door). we start with a bar, while i take business classes, and then i start buying bookstores. or one, at least (a modest start). from which i can write, and read, and disseminate the literature of my choosing, anti-black books, i might add.

skiing, fishing, driving, shopping, quitting smoking, paying $26 for the same bottle of vodka we used to buy for �12; o my canadian home- have i been writing this story just to bring me back to you?

to see myself in the faces on tv in parking lots when i turn around in the movie theatre with my twelve dollar popcorn and diet coke. or to not see myself in the faces of the north east (vancouver equivalent), not to know, as i do here, that i am living a half-life made easier by a spoonful of privilege based on the fact that i'm the right kind of foreigner.

we're setting off firecrackers in the park tomorrow. summer solstice. it's the crackle of life, the shock to the heart, the spark of light, the burn to the fingers, the cold of the grass on your back when you wake up in the morning and it's cold and wet and even though you've had some perfect moment and lived it, and woken up, it's over. and it hasn't really meant anything because you can't live it over and over and over again.

will i ever love again?