We drove in no real direction
on a bitter night in late January.
Me in the passenger seat,
him at the wheel.
"You can say anything to me,"
as I cried softly in my dark
corner of the car.
"I'm feeling anxious about our relationship,"
exhaling words that only knew the insecurities
of my idle mind.
now sounding a bit anxious himself,
pressing down heavier on the pedal.
I worry we will grow a p a r t,
not together, as time passes,
because we won't be ready for the same things
at the same time,
and I will become impatient as I wait
for you to do your living and growing.
I shrink into my corner,
feeling too vulnerable.
More tears warm my cheeks,
as I fail to steady my trembling breath.
"I wish I met you later."
A confession I never heard before,
but in hearing now,
felt I always knew was there.
We just kept driving,
away from, and towards,
our uncomfortable truth: We are, and always will be, in different places,
at the same time.