The smoke drifts from her lips in spirals, and her eyes seem to look far beyond the road in front of us.
We talk about pain and poetry and sometimes we cry,
but its ok.
And I can't help but reflect on these days.
When she clutches the steering wheel after I point out a pedestrian for the fifth time in the half hour.
And she turns around and says
"Mari..... you are such a backseat driver."
But theres something loving in her tone, something caring in her eyes as they glare at me.
And she has doves in her hair,
That doesn't make sense but she does.
They fly between the strands of her hair and perch on her nose.
And I wonder if they're affected by the tendrils of smoke that rise from her lips.
I worry about there safety sometimes, like when we discuss the feeling of smoke pooling at the bottom of an empty stomach.
I turn to the doves, just to make sure they're still flying.
Just to make sure her hair isn't without its accessory.
Im not sure what i'll do if one day I look and..
They're not there.
I get scared sometimes that I'll turn from the window and she won't be there.
She'll have flown off into the clouds where she belonged.
And I sometimes ponder what I'll do if one day she becomes light enough that her doves can carry her off,
Away from me.