i scrunch my face down into my scarf and make my way home over the highway overpass. the first snowfall of the year subtly making itself known all around me. easing me into remembering. gently brushing my cheek and melting in my hair. i light a cigarette. first pack i have purchased in months. and it felt damn good. the warmth of that pack in my pocket... like an old friend. such a tired metaphor. carol said that when she gave up smoking the hardest part was that she felt like she was giving up a part of her identity.

i focus on being aware of the feeling of the cigarette inbetween my fingers... and i inhale. i stare at the graffiti on the overpass. the same graffiti i always stare at. part of my own personal urban map. this particular overpass is in the midst of being torn down. its hideous. i have bitched about it since the first time i drunkenly made my way home over it. maneouvering through oncoming traffic. its a hazard, i would screech out into the night. now, i watch the construction men working at fulfilling my drunken dream. for the first time i realize that eventually those bulldozers and men in yellow hats will stand in front of my grafitti. and my grafitti will inevitably lose this stand-off. a small part of my personal montreal will be torn down along with the hideous concrete jungle. i suddenly forget how hideous it really is. i shudder at how its already safer than it used to be. there's a set of lights now. i cross the lights and get a sudden rush.

just a hint of a feeling. what was it... justin's bed. there was something incredibly comforting about it. i took a drag and remembered how amazing it felt to light up after sex. his was the first bed i smoked in. we'd lie there and stare at his ceiling fan. he was the second person i'd ever slept with. i thought about how he never made me feel vulnerable. and while i had my weaker moments, where i thought i wanted more from him... i knew. i knew i didn't feel for him any more than he felt for me. it was what it was. there's something peaceful in that.

i stop in the middle of the overpass and lean on the rail. god, this intersection is ugly. i turn my head towards the cement mixer and sigh. construction makes me nostalgic. i start to think about how i have condensed my experiences with justin into a couple of miscellaneous feelings. i could describe it in just a few sentences now. before, i probably could have written pages. its funny how time passes and ordeals become sentences. selective narratives. too much actually happens... every instant of our lives contains just too much sensation. too much to remember... so we're forced to pick and choose defining aspects. smells, fabrics, vague feelings, tears. grafitti.

i start to continue on my way. narratives. construction. cigarettes...

i whisper a silent goodbye to my grafitti.