Riding Shotgun at 2AM
Location
We sat.
Silence thickening between us
like an easier way to forgive.
You sipped coffee the color of my skin
just to stay awake
and I mused over Baldwin.
I watched
the black, Southern landscapes melt
into each other like two lovers
aching for a closeness that they
might never find.
Desperate.
Breaking their backs just to touch
the other,
hand to hand,
rib to rib
wrist to wirst
lip to lip
She is crying for him.
and he?
well –
he isn't listening very well
We speak through words
small enough,
shallow enough,
few enough,
to fit on an index card
and never touch the margins.
A sentence about the weather.
A word about the news.
A breath about school.
When did we become the two poles?
When did secrecy cloud our judgement
and only allow the shallowest of expression
to color us desperate?
So please–
let's break this moment.
Replace this silence.
Renew this luxury.
I am tired of writing to you.
The glue on this note is drying.
This pen is growing weary.
. . . "Hello"