Nothing was particularly perfect
But it was found somewhere
Between that and far beyond
Pleasant. Like the second
Sip of a cold cream soda.

Nothing was quite there
But I could still reach
The stars with my fingers
And it was familiar without
Déjà vu and without having
Happened before.

It could have been the thunder
From an open window
Or the domestic backseat
Bass of music that I
Didn’t know. A twilight
Of tiredness too, while
The trees across the spinach
Fields were illuminated.

The sidewash of
The headlights showing only
The front half of ridges
And guardrails and contemporary
Nuances of a roadtrip.

But that was it. It wasn’t
A roadtrip, the destination
Was near and out the windows
Every light was
A step under neon.

It was perfect,
Though far from it
And directly outside of it.