(This didn't start off as a poem, but I realized that it is... if that makes any difference...)
So I drive through the night with her song at my side, and the wind at my back.
Everything seems fine, as though the cold pie in the back and the warm pop sitting next to me were meant to be that way, as much as the smile on her face and the pull at my heart.
Happiness eludes the ever ready, and engages in sport with those unfit to be food for corn.
Through the darkness the sandman comes, whisking the dream away from this reality, into just another "dream within a dream."
But the smile I keep under lock and key is free to roam when the only eyes that matter can not see. Because the run-away grin can lead to the things left unsaid, and the words left unheard, and the things left undone. And, if the truth be told, as it sometimes is, the scariest part of reality is the giving of truth, and the thought that one is getting the truth in return.
Such an even exchange, so simple yet so hard. So underappreciated.
Under lights from above the south, ever changing in the cool night air, the feelings from within the peach are pushed to the side. The kill on the road leaves me empty inside, and the fear of something beyond such petty death leaves me afraid to drive.
The stop for the night seems to call for peace. Holding the warmth of a friend, my hand so close to the heart of the problem. Friends are so much more than, and a hundred times less, than my favorite enemy.
Time flies by so fast for us, we push it back after the fact, and it's still to late to check in.
We greet the sand apart, yet together sometimes. The cold driving us closer, and closer still. The words that I hear make you warm inside, though cold to the touch.
What my lips beg to taste, my mind denies. My needs beg to differ with the needs of the one who holds your key. So the secrets we hold safe remain chaste this time, though our minds play the idea to the quick.
The wind drives us in, and we take to the air. The weight of driving feeds us anew, and the weight in my backpockey seems less the same. Morning comes, and daylight brings us sand again. Three times the charm and four times the time we rest our weary eyes.
On our way back to hell after the day's journeys end, I'm reminded again why my heart always stops. The words I've wished come fumbling forth. The secrets been out but the truth ever fearful, pleads in my ears. The confussion sets in, though my mind is clear. Together I agree that it's all for the best.
How easy to mark the best for one who wants the untouchable. I mark the time and feel the pain.
Now, with so much left unsaid, and so many stories unread, we part our ways with heavy lids and soundless screams.
Low that I wish to tell so much more, but for the fourth time today the sand calls me forth, begs me to return,
To sleep.
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