The Metropolitan Aurora

Filling my heart with accomplishment
And the sketched atmosphere of the aloof stratosphere,
I stretch my legging clad legs over the edge of Cloud 9
And tug my threadbare sandals off, the clasps chiming a tune, while my feet dangle and dip in a crisp refreshing pond of hazy euphoria.

My limbs find their familiar positions, one arm casually resting on the door, the other fiddling with the radio dial.
It’s 9:43 pm, on a school night, my dad’s glancing for hasty drivers, and
My heart is beating in colored anticipation, like I’m anxiously waiting to be praised with the Reese Witherspoons and Sandra Bullocks of the universe.

The intense longing mirage vanishes away before I launch in that eerie place of wistful, motivational hunger.
I sit taller, perfumed neck elongated, in the aged dusty silver Toyota, the seatbelt struggling to contain my over abundant enthusiasm to the two dimensional world.
My reeling energy simply won’t let it.
My acute jumble of irises and pupils are fixated straight ahead and I’m taking exhilarating breaths, utterly living in the moment, occupying each minute, waiting for the treasured part: the city lights.

There’s a point on the 405 freeway where it’s just endless ebony and incandescent twinkles of copious lives and loves and lores, and it is the most magical place in the world.

The Metropolitan Aurora.

Just the urban smiles and me.

Rejoicing in the exuberant glow,
Blessing the hundreds of other souls that just so happen to be journeying along
This manufactured Galaxy
At this precise moment.

Divine Cement.
Blissful Tar.

Tinsel Town whispers waltz in the air,
The road seamlessly flowing into the Milky Way, so I can reach those dreams that ended up on the rings of Saturn.

The Magnificent Pathway.
The Enchanted Route.

We have an extensive relationship, somewhat routine, which I hope, with every huff and puff of suburban dandelion petals, never ceases to flourish.

Thirteen and wide eyed,
Fourteen and yearning,
Fifteen and forlorn,
Sixteen and rusty,
Seventeen and ready.

Those dashed white lines have soothed distressed outings,
Giving me the endowment of stamina for treading on intimidating foreign carpet,
Even when just the modest highway lamps kindle my savaged hope.

And I only entreat the sashaying seconds to lull, so I can gently ease open the care door and roam on the ground that keeps me grounded.
To give it a brief and fleeting rouged thank you, each groove on the palm of my hand lingering on the stories written with the faded dark shadows tires left behind.
My eyes soaking in the Wishes it turned into Success.

Beyond the perimeters of the sluggish dingy 101, the 405 rolls out an internal red carpet for me and my quintessence.
Those three numbers, that packed and busy Californian road
Makes me the vague but exciting “Somebody Who’s Going to be Somebody Big.”
Because of the gentle guidance of a strip of concrete.

It’s 9:43pm on a school night, my dad’s maneuvering a lane change, my heart is satiated and approachable, and me, with my haywire spirals socializing with the illuminated breeze, I’m just waiting for the lights.


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