Soul Scrabble

You can never really go home.

Frustration reigns in this old house I waited so long to run away from. I forgot the grass is always greener a plane ticket away.

The mason-dixon pool wouldn't seem so chlorinated if it weren't for my mother.

Something is not quite right. I came home expecting my friends to have changed into unrecognizable shapes, but not the voice I had called every morning for the past three months.

Our intuition is gone. The smile that used to form when I was told I looked just like her has stayed up north. Every word rips out another page from the dictionary collecting dust in the corner. Syllables come out of my mouth and attack what was an amazing relationship.

And God help me, it kills.

Quixote keeps worrying through the numbers on his phone. But how do you dictate a silent cancer? In naps that start mere hours after rem has fled and last until a frustrated mother raps on the door to wake a lost child up for a dinner she doesn't approve of? In two doors and a hallway filled with guilt trips that slowdance with the dust particles in the fading virginia light?

I love her more than anyone. But affection and honesty have never been factors. Swevere was the sole name of the game.

She seems to be giving up on me. And I have never been so quietly defeated.

I'm sorry Mom. Synchrosity doesn't exist anymore. For the first time, I can't be you and me.

So I'm fine, please go. I know its not my home.