It is 7 in the evening of a June day,
a time when the sky overhead
becomes a shade of ocean,
a submerging grapefruit sunset's last rays
combating the rise of darkening blue waves,

the cool air's lingering scent
of faded flowers and sparse dry grass
mingles with hazy fumes of exhaust
trailing from the continuous stream of cars
running down the roadway,

I lean on the side of someone's truck,
the cool, soft night wind
brushing against my face and neck
taking in the backdrop
of streetlamps lighted orange
and the shadowy outlines of large, wispy trees,

one ear listening to regretful sad songs,
the other tuned to car engines
with wheels fast enough to appear suspended
in time for a split second
before disappearing out of reach,

can't help but wonder
why all of these things occurring together
make me feel so small and invisible,
a bystander taking refuge on the borders of town,
always on the outside; only able to peer in,
as everyone's lives play before my eyes
here in one split suspended moment
and then gone the next,

waiting for someone's response
to the desolate, harrowing loneliness
that engulfs me like a blanket
as overwhelming as the nightfall's sky,
the silence prevailing over my regretful sad songs,
the grayness of an empty existence
completely enveloping the orange lights
of the streetlamps,

perhaps when the sky becomes
overwhelmingly more ocean,
maybe only then, I will know.