I suppose
maybe I fancied
that the past can grow into my hair.

That all the hands that touched it
don't wash out.
That all the lustful looks
at my childhood scalp
wove their way
into the strands.

And all of my
self-loathing and hate
attached itself
from my brain
to the roots,
and grew out into
the red.

That's probably why I cut it off
so many times.

Yellow city lights,
Streaks of red,
Huffing and puffing
Trucks and buses,
Dripping roof,
Cold sidewalk,
Wearing my happy red shoes.

I’d like to take up the earth
In my hands,
And fold it over like fabric.
Then stitch through the grassy weave
And bring your home
Closer to me.
But though I cannot make that happen
You are only a time travel
Of two hours away.

You can measure it in
Minutes,
Songs,
Miles,
Hot beverages
And scenery,
I’ve even measured it in rain,
The space between
You and me.

Here I am,
In my small town version of a city,
Sitting on my duffel bag,
Because I’d rather shiver in the outdoors,
And you’re only a matter
Of Beatles albums away.