i know the feeling, know you're leaving.

cold pasta might be the second best thing for a hungover tummy. kinda nostalgic this morning after waking up feeling like shit from (ok well... beer and) another psychological head trip nightmare. a questioning crossroads of relationships old and new. questions muddling my already aching head.

sitting on the couch in my pajamas watching dazed and confused and cleaning out emails from more than 2 years ago. reminiscing on old friends, lovers, adventures. purging loves gained and loves lost. spoke with one of those friends this afternoon, had some good laughs and good memories. may mornings in montreal, cafe joes, cnn and movies. feels like a million years ago.

anyway... found this which is my friend chanel's favourite poem. i love the beauty of the words and imagery. its tangible and sensual. this author also wrote one of my favourite books called... In the Skin of a Lion. it is also very beautifully written and the love in it is visceral. read it if you get a chance... it takes place in toronto in the 20s and 30s. made me fall in love with a city that lived in for 2 summers.

THE CINNAMON PEELER
by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.