“Why are you so hard on yourself?I love you just the way you are,with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier.The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see your trace, and silent grace and tin cup through the paned window.The precipitation melts your face, distorting your expression through the aged glass; broken, when I threw ancient stones to get your attentionas a child.I wanted a friend. The honest kind.”