you see streetlamps
racing their lights
across the skyway
towards home
sitting at the edge
in a cold machine
hard cushions
reminding me
of words said or unsaid
my head resting over
the foggy window
as my spectacles provide
the vantage point
that lengths widen everytime
the wheels revolve against
its asphalt counterparts
ribs soring from some mysterious
catastrophe
as a few days ago sharing
a bed with someone close, but still unknown
long hair dripping wet, tied messily
still hoping that your hand would reach out
and find my way into mine
its not too late