always

backseat of the same car

we've had since I was ten

we drive through the town I grew up in

and am desperate to leave behind

we look at the lights

tradition

snowflakes hang in the air with the very same

brilliance of a camera flash

artificial illumination stains the lawns

and it's beautiful

like always

but there's that pit in my stomach

that comes with the season

of knowing the traditions

and the performances I have to put on

to hide the pain of being home

where you don't know me

not really

not anymore

you can't see me

not behind the shine of that practiced smile

not behind the lights

astigmatism augments

and obstructs your view

like always