gliding through suburbia,
the radio never whispers,
but tonight it seems out
of breath. these glass w-
indows seem more like m-
irrors as we self reflect w-
ith a little more depth. m-
ore depth then when the
sun is up. it’s more her t-
han me, i am yet to feel
love. yet to receive it, m-
y basket is empty. she w-
orries about longevity,
i wonder what it feels lik-
e to have any.

-t.m