there she is again
that girl who's always writing
I wonder what she has to say
that's so important
not much
in truth
except
cheeks slapped with cold
snowflakes frost my eyes
and
my little sister in the bath
we give her a Santa Clause beard of bubbles
I'm drowning in nostalgia
some leaves still linger on the ground
but most are dead and gone
and I move a dead butterfly from the middle of the road
and count the mismatched bricks
in the wall
and reach down
and touch the pavement
with my fingertips
to make sure that it is really there
what reality should I choose
have I over stayed my welcome in this one
is it finally time
to go back to my own?