If I Tell You What I Believe
Will you stop the car and tell me to get out?
If I tell you what I believe,
will you stop the car and tell me to get out?
Or worse, will you
go silent,
stunned into aphasia?
Worse still and most likely, will you
keep driving,
nod and puncture the air with uh huhs and reallys and wows while you
chafe at the speed limit,
willing us to arrive at our destination sooner,
certain I will never sit in the passenger seat again;
whisper to acquaintances
what a crackpot I’ve become,
how sad it all is, that I’ve lost my grip
and don’t even know it
and how sorry you are for me;
pretend that boltcutters didn’t just permanently snip our link,
and when we meet again, unavoidably,
crush me hello with your signature embrace,
the very act of over-efforting telling me all I need to know
about who I am to you now?
Or
will you recognize yourself
and turn to me,
eyes alight with the permission you’ve just been granted,
unhinge your jaw, and
unbutton your own lips?
I stare at the road before us.
The car drives on.
I inhale.