4/28/08

That night, remembering took conscious effort.
The meandering, unfulfilled drive home was gentle on my stomach.
I was relieved, and focused on each new headlight as it passed,
conceiving of each's story.
Ours sat between us, straddling the gearstick,
but was quiet and respectful,
listening perhaps to the static of the air
rushing by outside.
Her face was draped with apathy;
she did not look at me.
Instead, our sparse conversation was held sidelong,
formed in swirling, confused minds,
and cast with embarrassment from the corners of dried mouths.