Wrong Side

And here i am, on the wrong side of the wall, wrong end of the line. last shore on the ocean.

I have a boyfriend who'd rather get lost on the streets of Montreal than in his basement in Maadi.

I don't blame him, I understand the need to scratch beneath your wings, I just thought maybe just maybe he'd prefer to get lost in my arms here on the wrong side of the ocean.

I have a line on my face. it's not a wrinkle, or a scar, just a strange crooked line on the right side of my forehead that only shows when a light shines over me and i tilt my head just so... i am getting older.
i have to tell myself that.
I watch it with fascination in my bedroom mirror, try to frown or smile, but still it stays, unfazed. i have a line that won't go away, just like that itch beneath his wings that couldn't go away, that no amount of drunken smiles in torn shorts and messy hands in hair and hot nights on the beach can satisfy.