Jan 2012
Driving in the rain,
Isn’t that deep?
Our human obsession with rain and cigarettes and other shallow things like love never ceases to confound me.
I pound the steering wheel 3 times.
Hard.
I think of what you said about my cheetah print steering wheel and my ****** Mary bobble head clacking away, nodding gently on my dashboard, encouraging your thoughts about me.
But maybe not.
She nods away today in the mist; she’s wet cause I’ve got the windows rolled down trying to cool my hot cheeks, pink and blushed with artificial and real rouge alike.
The dull ache in my palm from the pounding the wheel gives way to the cold finger tips and white knuckles that I give myself as I mutter harsh words to your apparition in the passenger seat.
If talking to myself makes me crazy then put me in the psych ward cause thats all I can do.
I sure can’t tell you. I can’t scream “LOOK at me. Just look.”
If I could describe my soul’s reaction to you, which I never could, it would be something like this:
A joyous, but frustrated 5 year old, her blonde pigtails bouncing in the sunshine, begs her father “play catch with me, daddy!” She tugs at the hem of his pant leg and jumps around being silly, waving her arms and shining her little girl smile around for the world involuntarily. Too young, she cannot bottle her excitement, her willingness.
“LOOK. Just look…at me.”
Isn’t that deep?
Our human obsession with rain and cigarettes and other shallow things like love never ceases to confound me.
I pound the steering wheel 3 times.
Hard.
I think of what you said about my cheetah print steering wheel and my ****** Mary bobble head clacking away, nodding gently on my dashboard, encouraging your thoughts about me.
But maybe not.
She nods away today in the mist; she’s wet cause I’ve got the windows rolled down trying to cool my hot cheeks, pink and blushed with artificial and real rouge alike.
The dull ache in my palm from the pounding the wheel gives way to the cold finger tips and white knuckles that I give myself as I mutter harsh words to your apparition in the passenger seat.
If talking to myself makes me crazy then put me in the psych ward cause thats all I can do.
I sure can’t tell you. I can’t scream “LOOK at me. Just look.”
If I could describe my soul’s reaction to you, which I never could, it would be something like this:
A joyous, but frustrated 5 year old, her blonde pigtails bouncing in the sunshine, begs her father “play catch with me, daddy!” She tugs at the hem of his pant leg and jumps around being silly, waving her arms and shining her little girl smile around for the world involuntarily. Too young, she cannot bottle her excitement, her willingness.
“LOOK. Just look…at me.”
