Suddenly I feel with a nauseating ache
the two hundred and forty-seven times
that the sun has signed a path across the sky
since I last could see you.
By some sort of magic - your genius and my luck -
I’m behind the wheel of a car that’s not ours;
you’re taking me home at 90 miles per hour.
Even so,
not all of the force I apply to the gas translates into speed.
I desperately want everything outside to blur softly.
This car is so constricting.
The seats are so inhibiting.
I hate being held in place.
Expressions checked by seat belts.
Emotions checked by distance and time apart.
Frustration of empty swings in a batting cage,
like thick wisps of cotton, clouds my thoughts.
I’m helpless, speechless and compulsively switching lanes
as everything inside me blurs softly.