You told me your home would always be my home.

So, I walked on in took my neon green high-top converse off,

Plopped myself on the cracked pleather dark brown couch and

Made myself comfortable.

I never thought I would overstay my welcome.

Do you remember your house on Staten Island?

It had this enchanting white wooden archway,

Covered in wild crimson red roses and

Thick green vines slithering like snakes up over the sides.

I was around the age of four years old,

We wore matching ponytails and blue denim overalls.

The Bayonne Bridge was hanging in the distance,

When I looked up, I didn’t know if it was the bridges twinkling lights,

Or if it was your eye that glistened.

The smell of the barbeque and firecracker smoke wafted through the air,

If I had a dollar for every time, I wished we could all go back there.

You always said I was one of your own,

Making my cousins the only siblings I’d ever know.

I'm 24 years old now and we haven’t spoken in almost a year.

You could care less; just go back to guzzling your piss-tasting beer.