I left, and nothing was the same;
I came back, and everything was the same.
I've changed, but you haven't;
this thing between us hasn't changed,
or has it?
You remain transfixed on the games,
and even after months of silence,
you expect me to play;
and I get a thrill off of saying no,
which admittedly is my own way of playing back.
I don't know whether I love you or hate you more,
but homecoming also means coming home to that dichotomy,
to resisting urges and old patterns,
to hoping you've finally figured out where I'm at,
that your path has met mine,
that you've changed with time.
These roads feel the same but also
like they belong to a life I no longer know;
new tracks on new albums make the soundtrack for the drive,
and you attempt to wedge yourself amongst lyrics of redemption
and desire.
I need you to let me go
but want you to come with me;
I need to live the new life I've built
but am haunted by past fantasies;
when I come home,
it can't be to you,
and when I leave,
I'm leaving you too.
