by Lacey Smith

Driving in the car listening to Bloc Party,
I wanted to tell you how I felt
but I was too focused on the moths
darting in and out of the headlight beams.

I wondered why you didn't touch me
but I didn't dare to ask.
As the drum beat waxed and waned
through my writhing nerves,
you cleared your throat and
ran your hand down your own thigh,
mispronouncing the names of streets.

I prayed for it to rain again,
to wash out the murky mutual hazel
of our matching eyes.
Your lips were the muddy red of home,
but I couldn't look right at you
for fear of turning to salt.

Instead, I watched your hands
drum along to the beat,
your dashboard symphony
ringing through me with a
piercing clarity.

That night when you slept,
I counted the wrinkles in your knuckles,
memorizing your twists and turns,
thinking of what I ought to say
if you ever made me leave.


Author's Note: It has been awhile since I bothered to write anything and after talking with a friend about how long it has been, it occurred to me that I had a bunch of stuff from a few years ago sitting in files but not posted. Looking through it is odd...it's like I preserved months of my life in poetic form and revisiting them is like drumming up emotions that those poems kept preserved. It's pretty cool. This is one of the ones I found.

Posted on 10/17/2011
Copyright © 2021 Lacey Smith

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