I watched your face light up like
New York City when I came home
from wherever I used to be.
I used to be mine, all mine, until you
stole me away like a black-eyed bandit,
took me for keeps, no givesies-backsies.
But that didn’t matter so much because
at least I had your gift-wrapped smile
telling me that this is where I should stay.
Stay, you told me, tugging my arm,
fingers intertwined in the fabric of
my skin. So I did because the lights –
your lights – reminded me of who I was
before I wanted to be anything else.
Anything else would be boring, you said
as you triple-dog-dared me everyday
to live like I was alive, to forget
all my symptoms of this adulthood
disease called growing-up. But I,
I said, in a high-pitched whine, I said
I don’t want to! So you pinched me
and I finally stopped dreaming.
Dreaming was something that
we were good at, especially when
the sun was out. What are you thinking?
you’d ask and I’d stick my tongue out.
None of your business but I didn’t know
that someday it would be, like everything else
of mine that you’ve made yours.
Yours is something I want to be
as I watch your lights come on.
This, right here, is home, and where I
used to be… That’s just a memory.
