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The motor way streetlights
make passage across the planes
of your sleeping face:
in ten second repeated sweep
they cast you in all the shapes
that it takes, lids in dark,
lashes in light, the cup of your soft bottom lip
against the edge of your upper.
Orange pictures peeling from the dark and
away, from the light and into the window pane
you rest against, my thin scarf pressed against
the cold. I feel the tickle of envy, envy
the light its ability to leave so easy,
to come and go without disturbing you,
and how it touches every inch;
I know it gets nothing, and I think, smug,
if leaving was easy, then the staying
would have no worth. The ways I disturb
you are plenty—I am no gentle
glow; I grow heavy being so bright,
and crash into your quiet so often;
you look at me and I feel caught,
and made still, though I quiver with meanings
which flood my insides. You look
at me, and lead
me to believe I am someone amid the atoms.
motorway breaks away, a wishbone
road, snapping. A sign so divine, and though
it is night, I feel the day as it was you. Orange
white of the frosted streets, and ice cream in
the snow: the sudden impossibility of a perpetual
moment. The destination is coming close,
and shaking brain freeze, and shiny songs,
I gently wake you, whisper: we’re here.
We’re here, wherever that is, here.