I-35

Twilight falls over the creaking trees

that groan and cry in October winds.

You play with wildflowers and grass;

braiding, weaving their stems and

tearing their petals under your nails.

I sit within an arm's reach of you

but we aren't looking at each other.

The stars roll into the deep velvet sky

before either of us speaks a word;

and all I say is, "it's gotten dark."

A highway unfolds into the night

somewhere behind our meadow.

The car is cold and waiting for us

to come home to it, warming it;

we don't want to but do it anyway.

The leather seats welcome me back

as moonlight bleeds through the glass.

Runaway oak leaves clatter over it like

thin bones of the forest bidding goodbye;

the sound of them strangely aches.

You grip the wheel a bit tighter than

yesterday when it was September.

I grip the sleeves of my jacket like

some stranger is holding me there;

I wish you would look at me.

Morning will come with a shadow

that lingers in the pitch of your eye

and swarms you, swallows you whole;

it sinks into the threads of your shirt

just to drown you in a river of sunflowers;

but it will take you from me

again

and again

and again.

Author's Note

S.W.