Lovers are impractical things.
Your sunglasses rattle
as the tires screech across long stretches of concrete.
The sun only sets when it is exhausted,
and so you sweat in its fervent heat
until it vanishes beyond the horizon.
The moon shrieks at midnight,
and it fights for your affection –
the nocturnal, exaggerated love you offer your lover.
She falls asleep
and the moon wins.
Coffee stains and briefcase blues tick inside your head,
but you find your lover burrowed into valleys you can’t see.
Where do her eyes go when they gaze into the sun?
She was never yours, and she was never her own.
You listen to shrieks and she listens to whispers.
Can’t you feel her fingertips gently pat your hand?
You love the moonlight only
because of the way it looks on her drained skin.
Her bare feet are cold, and she kicks you in her sleep.
She is in a perpetual state of contemplation,
and her soul is exhausted.
You toss her book aside and she screams,
but you hear it like a whisper.
You drive faster and faster until the cars shriek, too.
They say lovers are impractical things.