On a Sunday afternoon he sits with doubt
about the girl with long brown hair.
A couple months ago, when it all began, it seemed so potent.
The messages they would send to each other were endless.
He saw her last before leaving on his trip for two weeks,
it all seemed perfect, but, upon his return she’d lost interest.
She won’t agree to see him or return his messages with witty replies
as she once did.
Two weeks is too long to go without seeing someone at the very beginning
of the kindling. The fire was not yet ready to stand alone, it’s since gone out.
Perhaps someone else was there as he traveled the country,
an escape to see the world, something he’d only heard of in books.
At some point in your life you have to go for it, buckle up,
drink a coffee at 4AM,
see the sunrise through your windshield -
no matter how the world is going to look when you get back.

A strewn learner sticker

His ego was always too thick



Too thick for glass

A windscreen stood no chance



Now mourners melanchol

Of a young man taken



His mother saw the real him

She saw the fake



"A little angel" they say

Certainly the one he took away

Driving on country road
Beatles on the radio
Wind is in my hair

I like
old-fashioned coke bottles
and the way the glass fogs up,
so I know it’s ice cold.
I like
the smell in the air after it rains
on a mild summer afternoon.
I like
my stomach in knots,
peanut butter ice cream,
driving with no destination,
freshly fallen snow,
the sound of waves crashing in the distance.
I like
back scratches
and goose bumps
and laughing at nothing in particular;
just for the hell of it.
And I think
I like
you.

Aimless as we are
Drifting thru the somber sights
Drifting thru street lights

Directing us to the never clear

Late nights alongside a fearful
Fantasy

I drive her home as her favorite melody
repeats in our heads
It's as if we've loved perpetually
And resented somewhere in between
However, the case is we will never know how much really lies there for the other
Regardless of ulterior endeavors
& Alternative societies that will
keep us mirrored
Whether it is one-way, anyhow.

Debris alongside the highway
Bother me
Here are littered items
Treasures discarded at 50 miles per hour
Memories left
behind of travels
And worse
Yet we pass by
Eager to get home
Ignorantly blissful
Of what could be ours

There are two half-full cups of coffee on my desk
(and one in my car).
But you'd make me more in the morning
If I asked.
Like how you would drive my car in the rain,
Because I can't see the road
(even though I never told you I couldn't)
And then make me watch bad movies.
You're better than the rain,
You're the whole monsoon season,
Shaking the whole world up with yourself,
And making it better every time.

Five years or more
Or perhaps less,
Does it matter to you
Or me?
Isn't time a relative measure
To make sense of other conducts.

I was here, this city
My idea of the west
That still can and will
See me as of this land.
People were bright,
Were too busy in their lives
To yell at you about the dent
In the car's bumper,
People would narrate so.
That was to me, a declaration
Of our true values.
Probably that's simply a story now.
But either my mind grew
Or the things,
Who will attest to it?

In my car, the fan on full blow,
The heat musty though,
The sun burning with a new found motive.
In this city of people with hearts,
I looked out my window,
Rarely looking ahead,
Maybe this is why I fail
To memorize roads,
Or streets in my own place.
But the car halted and
The driver mumbled,
The accent a lovely northern,
One that sounds too polite
To instill any fear,
To pass as a slur.

My eyes darted ahead,
So calmly the man in the driver's seat
Sat, his both palms griping
The wheel a little too loose to turn,
His heavy chin on the back of his hands,
His back arched forward,
So calm and serene.
The man on the bus,
Sat same, his back though
Stretched way too forward
From his seat,
The distance greater,
He, struggled to keep that pose.

Both man on the wheel stared
Through the double windshields at each other,
If I didn't know better
I would say they were friends
Playing games.
If I didn't know about the traffic,
Blaring horns louder more by the second
I would say it was a new game
Likes of the bull and the matador,
Tad bit less dramatic,
And less action and work.

But my mind grew,
And I could tell this was a fight,
Raging between the eyes,
The victims of the peaceful blows,
-Everyone behind them,
Beside them.
Other people screamed at both,
None flinched,
Them, as sturdy as their vehicles,
The elders grew despondent,
I couldn't stop looking at them.

This was a quiet revolution
Of the new age,
The calm, polite age
And I wanted to watch it bloom,
Like a sunrise,
I wanted to clap to it
And yet not disturb it.
This was on a busy street,
Two men on their thirties,
Fighting for what they believed in,
In their own way,
It was funny
But it was also beautiful.
(I knew both of them were wrong.)

The driver curved around them
And my view was a passing glance
Again.