focus

Etched on the backs of my eyelids is one of those dusky nights,

threadbare tires and music that tastes of static and somewhere else.

Outside autumn is taking its final rattling breath,

the cold just shy of being cruel,

though I will only notice this later.

For now I lean against the backseat window,

watching streetlights flicker lazily to life,

pretending I cannot feel your hand in mine,

the way you trace the ring on my finger,

and my world snaps into focus.

I try to find something pretty to say,

but my prose has always looked better on paper,

and there is a simplicity in silence, too.