bY - Fatima Alegre Gervacio ( Frowning Frog ! :-P )
but of course,
the road is really not a road.
It never it is.
Here, the kiss you give
to the person sitting next to you
is not a kiss.
Its a punch to the face.
Here, I love you
is I despise you,
Here, laughter is not ringing out,
what you're actually hearing
is the plink of tears on corduroy.
Here, there is no translation
for wanting to pull up the lock on the door
and tumbled out onto concrete.
There is no metaphor for that.
See, I lied before -
You're not the driver.
You're the passenger.
All the things you see
through that grimy window
are not ever what they seem.
The vultures you are staring at through thw windshield
have the same talons as home.
But the one with the crooked wing
and dangerously bright eyes
is flying just a little too close.
And the rain isn't falling on your window,
its on your roof.
Because the car wasn't the car,
it was your house.
And now, the sound of liquid bullets barraging the metal
that has somehow melted
into the more supple consistency of your skin
is reminding of you of the shadow lying beside you.
And no, a shadow isn't just a shadow.
You squint your eyes and all you see
is the cheshire smile hanging in the air
because that was all that was left behind.
And you threw out the gifts that were not gifts
that did or did not mean love
into the trashcan that wasn't a trashcan
but a piece of glass that spits out
tremors, bitter thoughts and peace.
And the crash that occurs
in the few moments you took your eyes off the road
to watch black feathers slowly circling
is the night he struggle your hands
off his shoulder for the first time
and you realized
the magnitude of the miscalculation.
I guess, you were the driver, after all.