26 April 2007
You ran out the door without thinking.
It was like some sort of parable:
clothes on your back, following a distant star,
seeking transformation in high beams.
The night before, you were still in love.
It comes and goes, like hunger and thirst,
or a craving for pizza and beer.
You remembered eyes full of tears.
But then you closed the door and drove.
It was too cold that night to waste time.
In mid-day, it had been a scorcher,
lots of shorts, water fights, and ice:
time was cheap.
You hit the access road too fast,
nearly went off into nothingness,
made a quick correction
and found the highway.
You entered a worm hole.
You found yourself in another place:
An empty stretch on the road to . . .
you really didn't know.
The highway pulled you through empty space,
interiors, exteriors, the same,
stripping away the past,
like clothing strewn on the side of a bed,
like passion that will never last.
A techno-beat vibrated the speakers,
drowning the night in pretense,
like an argument got out of hand,
until there's nothing more to be said.
You glanced in the rearview mirror,
expecting to see what you left behind,
but seeing only death and empty darkness,
the hollowness of matter, space and time.
You stopped counting the mile-posts
a long time back and focused
on the needle pointing
to the E. Empty but still moving.
Some things don't know when to quit.
A sixteen wheeler rushed by,
driver barely conscious,
rocking your world for a brief
wind and sand swept moment
as your car fell asleep in your hands.
You thought: that's it all right.
Rolling to a stop on the edges of the world,
headlamps disappearing on a endless stretch.
You finally got away
and saw the stars at night.
© 2007, Satya J. Gabriel