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

So I stare out the window 
as the sky fleeting 
fades from blue. 
Because I feel more akin 
to light on rock 
than I do 
to you. 

There's nothing here 
I would fight
to prove, 
and I'm not placing 
any blame. 
Not sure
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 
not that anyone 
would ask. 
Because no one 
wants to hear
you're happy 
unless you're selling 
a convenient 

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