our evenings glaring against the blaring views of Toronto's magical skyline, of CN Tower lancing through the flesh of lazy falling skies, hues of blood, gold and lilac, oozing from the creases of its silken clothes, of grey jays, geese and loonies heading home, of nightlife coming to life, and of our distinct reflections setting down as one in the cool waters of Lake Ontario.
Now at every smokefall, I think of you as the sun walks out on me, pouring darker shades in my eyes. At night, the stars don't twinkle like they did when we would lie against the fragile skylight spotting constellations you loved. The day does not end with two cups of coffee, I now take one cup of tea because coffee doesn't suit me anymore — standing alone, watching the sunset paint the weathered, banal skyline in a not-so-perfect palette.
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