"with two faces you'll never be true."

So I stare out the window 

resolute 

as the sky fleeting 

fades from blue. 

Because I feel more akin 

to light on rock 

than I do 

anymore 

to you. 

There's nothing here 

I would fight

to prove, 

and I'm not placing 

any blame. 

Not sure

anymore

that you're higher 

than these choices, 

and to the real estate 

they lay claim. 

Looking out from my 

vantage point, 

I was never given a damn 

reference point 

and the plot was lost 

eons ago.  

I consider 

abandoning the chase. 

The bathroom mirror 

insists I'm better off 

with a security blanket 

of pigment 

on my face. 

I get back to the table - 

a pointed question, 

"Do you feel 

out of place?" 

It's nobody's fault,

though I wonder

in silence 

when that hasn't 

been the case. 

And I have 

nothing left to say 

anymore, 

not that anyone 

would ask. 

Because no one 

wants to hear

you're happy 

unless you're selling 

a convenient 

mask.