Next week I think I'm coming home
No decision made yet, you know I can never make up my mind.
My presence doesn't affect you, and that bothers me.
Ask me to come home, tell me you miss me.
My duffle bag packed, and my shoes tied,
just in case you drive me away.
I doubt you care that much. Hate is not worse than apathy.
It won't matter someday, once I am apathetic,
but now homecoming occupies my thoughts.
She wouldn't approve. You never have.
Between the two, seeking acceptance, wanting consent.
Maybe when my afternoon class is over,
I'll take the long way to look
at the front porch where i used to swing.
If you are there, will you beckon to me to join you?
I'll probably stay here so I will never have to discover
whether you would raise your hand to wave me over.
July 30, 1998
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