A hand from your past

I’ve spent seasons in this silent suburb praying you to a place where all things are playthings and every room is safe, every star beams down on your beauty and your dreams are freer than when you slept in the breath of my two-faced vigil. I’m still here, going nowhere fast - nothing special in dark glasses, the golden boy in the mirror defeated at last. Think of me just once, some day, if you ever sense the other freedom that mocked me. Think of me as a hand from your crowded past that I hereby give you licence to cut off. I’ll feel your anger like a thorn in the side and laugh myself to sleep.