“visually rich guy-girl relationship uncertainty played out in a road trip, with overtones of impending heartbreak, first-person point of view, lots of non-declarative text (questions, requests, etc.) and dialogue”

Are you ever really listening, hands on the wheel,  
When I ask, “How much further?”—do you measure in miles  
Or in time, or with that glance sideways,  
Light dappling your face through the cracked window—  
What does it mean to you, the shape of my question?

Do you see the sparrows shy from the blacktop,  
Or is your mind already crossing state lines—  
Are you searching for the right song to fill this silence,  
Or wishing for less weight in the trunk, less ache between us?

“Turn left at the silo?” I’m unsure; you nod, wordless—  
Your thumb presses the hazard, a red flicker,  
My heart tripping with it—do you love me  
Or the drifting of sage brush, the sun sinking  
Like a coin in a wishing well—what wishes did we make  
At that last rest stop, leaning on a vending machine?

These mountains, ragged blue—are they the distance  
Or just sky wearing its wounds at evening?  
If I touch your arm, tapping, “See that cloud—like a cracked teacup?”   
Will you laugh and say, “Don’t worry, we’re almost there,”  
Because where is ‘there’—when the map in the glovebox  
Is creased through all the places you want,  
And I’m a compass spinning, rusted needle trembling,  
You promising, “Just ten more hours,” like hope is gasoline  
And we might outrun the storm brewing behind our words?

Remember the motel last night? The rain on the awning,  
That ugly painting—yellow sunflowers, smeared with regret—  
Did you mean the way you touched my hair, or was it  
A goodbye disguised by exhaustion?  
Am I reading too much into headlights,  
Into your pause at every fork in the road?

Is there a rest stop for lovers on the verge of unraveling—  
Somewhere the neon doesn’t flicker, the coffee is warm,  
Where we could name this ache without the echo  
Of tires grinding gravel, of “We’ll see,” and “Maybe,”  
Of my voice, small in the dark car,  
Asking, “Will you still want me…at the next border?”

Tell me—when the engine cools and doors open,  
If you’ll look back at me through the dust,  
Or drive on under canyon shadow and endless sky,  
Asking yourself—am I found, am I lost,  
Have we run out of road, or just out of time?

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