it rained tonight. the space inside your car
stiff and thick; i tried so hard to smile
with my mouth upturned and my eyes crinkled
like tinfoil but my
muscles tightened my smile into a grimace.
and i sat poking an empty soda can with my toe
looking at the opposite window so you wouldn't see
the ominous water on my cheeks.
trees don't talk through glass so i rested my head
on your shoulder and inhaled the sauna stained air,
the scent of you: warm nights and captured glances,
clean sheets and underneath it all, the smell
of smuggled whispers.
so tired and sleepy and my eyes like
winking moons, yours like gentle waves.
you turned the radio down, then off, to listen
and i loved you for it.
"those things" you said, "that hurt me, they're here, too."
and i sank into your voice, into the realness of
the rain, into the car seat, and i held onto your hand
(the nails in much better condition than my own)
and my flattened skin, so soaked with sleep,
took in your touch.
copyright eak 1998