Dec 2011
Tonight while you drive, I touch your arm, shoulder, thigh; I touch the parts of you that I can reach. The parts of you that I know exist simply because I can feel bones under skin.
In front of us the highway stretches on and on, to the point that I do not know if it ever plans on ending or simply dissolving into the dark like the red tail lights ahead of us continue to do.
I worry that I am everything the tail lights are not: stale and unmoving, pleasing to stay in one place. I worry that I am everything the tail lights are: speeding on past the point of now, all too eager to find something, somewhere.
Your hand tucked between my thighs tells me differently and anchors me to this place, with you. I try to circle your wide, flat wrist with my small fingers, knowing that they will never reach, knowing that they will never meet each other. I touch you because I am afraid that you are not real.
In front of us the highway stretches on and on, to the point that I do not know if it ever plans on ending or simply dissolving into the dark like the red tail lights ahead of us continue to do.
I worry that I am everything the tail lights are not: stale and unmoving, pleasing to stay in one place. I worry that I am everything the tail lights are: speeding on past the point of now, all too eager to find something, somewhere.
Your hand tucked between my thighs tells me differently and anchors me to this place, with you. I try to circle your wide, flat wrist with my small fingers, knowing that they will never reach, knowing that they will never meet each other. I touch you because I am afraid that you are not real.
