Montreal is a spiteful mistress. Feeling my heart turning from her, my warmth moving west, she lashes out at me with all her fury. She opens my windows, destroying the solace of my home as I come home to strange energies and missing money; she turns me away from lines I spent time and money to reach, mocking my unfit paperwork; she soils my clothes, even as I’m washing them. Her energy and mine no longer run in parallel, as is apparent with every fickle wrong she turns my way. But she can’t reach me now, not really. I’m already too far away, already awash in feelings of home, of belonging, of being in the arms of my true beloved.
I console you, Montreal, and beg your patience. I’ll leave your shores soon enough, and not return if you won’t have me.