On the street where we grew up,
the houses are so picturesque at night,
the sound of socks scuffing hard wood floors,
quiet of the attic forgotten chores.
Fifteen hundred miles looks close on maps.
It's hard to breath the air down here,
It's much too warm for winter, not like home.
You both have gotten old.
Where february's cold without my nearsighted eyes
Do you hate my face?
Now and then,
I listen for the sound of conversations long since dropped,
huddled in the backseat on Christmas eve,
world lit up like a prismatic tree,
resurrect the phone lines; we could talk.
You both have so much more than i could have ever given you.
I am fine.
I am good.
I am jealous.
I am through with self-deprecation; that's past its prime.
I still hate my face.
Nothing left to give so I give up.
I wait so patiently for a change in the temperature at night.
Feel the cold on my chest and the sucrets on my breath.
Think of home; that's where you are.
Do you hate my face?
