When I was younger
I could take solace of the passing ticks of the clock
and the blows of the trains on the train tracks near downtown.
I had memories of daddy and now
they're just pieces of torn up old photographs.
There were Fourth of July's
where you could see the fireworks from the old factory buildings of downtown
and my cousin's arms guiding my aim at the dim glow of the street lamp
while I held the burning Roman Candle.
The rides in the car that drive the
feeling of being invincible and infinite
like the flame that should be burning inside.
The Ghosts inside my childhood home are calling me back.
They miss how my cousin spent the night;
we would climb out the second story window and sit on the roof
feeling alive with the burn of the summer air in the back of our throats.
Now, seven hundred and sixty five miles away,
I sit in front of my chilly bedroom window
and I wonder if they miss me too.
I'm desperate for the time when I was younger.
