car engines. headlights. traffic. the way home.
not home, just somewhere i live.
we sit in the back of your mother's old mercedes,
"the ugliest tan color that ever existed" according to you.
it's a stick shift, and it skids and skips and sputters quite often.
i won't tell you, but i like when you tell me you want me to put on the seatbelt.
your head rests against the window,
and every knick in the road
makes you bump your forehead against the glass.
you're too tired to give a **** about it.
"i wish it was a better night, it's too cloudy,"
your breath visible on the window.
i can still see Vega, i don't think you can.
i nod my head and move my hand into yours.
i silently beg you to look at me.
maybe it's not a bad thing there aren't many stars out.
maybe it's the sky's way of telling us we should pay attention to each other.
maybe we hit every red light because the universe just wants to give us more time.
maybe the reason the light from the passing cars moves so fast is because it can't wait to touch your skin and
maybe the sound of car horns moves so slow because it loves the way your heart beats in the silence.
i mean ****, maybe i just want you to touch me again.
maybe it's just that i still need you and you're too tired to give a **** about it.