...it's been a long time since I posted a poem. ^_^

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“You’ve changed scents,” I remark quietly,
And you afford me a small smile
As your pale lips meet with the ceramic brim
Of this morning’s cup of Earl Grey.
(You’ve given up drinking coffee, I see.)
“Tom Ford, Gray Vetiver.” You answer softly
And then add “Do you like it?”
I do not know why,
But for some reason I do not reply.

I wearily eye the lone fleur-de-lis
On your black, wool-lined leather jacket
(I thought you hated the color black?)
And I heave a long sigh.
You are like your home, St-Isidore, now -
Cold, distant, somewhat detached.
I feel as though I no longer know you
When not too long ago we were nearly inseparable.
You had your reasons;
A closed fracture in summer and then a cold;
Your cousin’s death a few months ago.
There was college last fall,
And now your work.

I fail to stifle a bitter laugh
As I ponder about how rime seemed to have formed
Just when I though that the sunlight in Montreal
Would banish the last traces of St-Isidore’s frost.
“What’s so funny?” you ask.
“Nothing,” say I, “just that you’re wearing
a black jacket; I thought you hated black.”
You go on to explain
How you felt artistically enlightened,
- perhaps even liberated -
By the bleak purity that you heard in a song
And later teased out with your fingers
(“Exodus, by Maksim. I play the piano now.”)
Leading you to the symbolic decision
To wear black.

I pore over how much has changed
As helplessness gnaws at my forgotten tongue.
I no longer know you.
Not that I find you to be at fault;
Three oceans keep Manila and Montreal apart.
It’s just that I remember
How we used to walked together
Kicking up orange leaves as we went.
You would give me a smile
Illuminated in the late afternoon’s wan sun
And all else would be a blur.
Back then I would wonder
How long our footprints would grace the grass
Before they became someone else’s.
(That time seems to have come, sadly.)

Sunlight and pine and aftershave
And heady notes of something quite recognisable
- but not at all familiar.
“I guess things have changed,” I remark quietly.
You afford me a small smile,
As your pale hand reaches to your chest
To pull back the right lapel
Of your black, wool-lined leather jacket
And reveal a small crucifix
Hanging from the golden chain around your neck.
I catch my breath – it’s the one that I gave you
Not too long ago, before you returned to your home
Of frigid French streets
And flags of four fleur-de-lys.
“Some things don’t change.” you answer softly.
And this time no one needs a reply.

*** Made for CW 10, so needless to say, it's creative writing (or at least it's supposed to be) and this isn't the least bit drawn from any actual experience.

The title, I decided, should be a French word given all the references to Montreal and Quebec, and when I think 'French' you know who I think of first. ^_^