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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?

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