strung out on the floor. i feel like a stranger when i walk through my front door. a new street name is like and old photo placed in a picture frame; it might look different, but it's just a rearrangement of the same old troubles i've been going through. i found your love letters in the laundry. most of them i'd never even read. how much love can some one give without giving up instead? the dried up autumn leaves lay on the lawn and these freshly painted walls are caving in. i hope that time will draw a chapter where you end and i begin. it's like a game of chess with my loneliness, and i just stay in check; it's my condition and it's all about position, but i'm running out of places left to move. i don't fly a banner above my head anymore. years have come between us, are you still beautiful? could i ask forgiveness or is it too late for love? no recriminations have ever cleared anyone. lorne park, will you see me after dark? will you bathe me in your blue suburban sky? i've come home with a trail of blood and bones, to your street lights hung like halos in the night. tonight: i was walking backwards to the house i was born, when the grass grew over where i once held my own. could i ask forgiveness, or is it too late for love? no recriminations have ever cleared anyone. cut