Of Present: Night Drive.

The night drive, the twelves to fours
these were the times of growth,
of a peculiar negative phototropism
of hearing muffled sounds by the window
of coming to terms with the content of books
that had changed me forever
but then, why now, when I
close my eyes, am I lost?
Why would I crave to disappear
more than anything else
Why would I lust to drown?
I miss you
I don’t think I could live without you,
I think we’re in this for eternity
I miss you, love
But aren’t you right here?
With me?
right across the telephone?
and where am I to disappear?
Where would I be known?
What does it take,
to free yourself from the shackles of being human,
of tired, monochromatic existence
to venture to an ethereal plane?
And what would it be worth?
Isn’t everything in this poem
somehow a lie
a muffled sound you would never know
was a gunshot or laughter?
But then, if what we feel
isn’t the truth
what is?
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