Brightest Young Things

welcome to pt. 2 of our first original poetry and art column which will run on Tuesdays and created as an artistic response to Hawksley Workman's Letters to Isadora, which were published in the personals of a Toronto magazine; he's a very progressive singer and the letters were later bound in a book and make for some fantastic artsy reading, if you need any, on top of this.

Hawksley,

How do you move so fast...mean so much? Your words, they mean little. At times nothing; but your breath, your skin speak for themselves with those flickers I imagine I see in your eyes. Like a dying man's
flashlight reaching me from the grave, deep and cold, those flashes of warmth draw me closer to you until I can no longer focus-you are all around me. I used to laugh at the songs you sang to me on my shores; I
used to float your letters upstream, like rafts carrying your words, gently. But I no longer hear you and words mean little now. They meant a lot when I laughed at you, because laughter was just masking my fear of indecision. But I no longer laugh, I must be decided. I will walk on, turning every stone to look for pieces of your words.

Isadora