(she)
tell me who you are,
i find myself wanting to say every time i look for your eyes and find them on the road.
because it's strange, i think, how our life is in your hands and yet i know nothing about you.
what if you're underage? a famous addict running from proof-wanting paparazzi? maybe you're a barista, one of the ones that have drinks get offered to them, and always take a girl home and kiss their body but not their scars. maybe you're on the law career path, you work with the good guys who put bad people in prison. or maybe you work with the bad guys who help keep them out.
and now you're here, somehow. you're here,
and i'm also here, and so we're here together.
and you're driving us to the next destination while i read a book i found in the back of the car and subtly ask myself whether it belongs to your mother or some college chick.
assuming you went to college, that is.
the book is good, nonetheless.
it's not a classic like pride and prejudice,
moreso one of those little books nobody really cares about.
i find them to be the best.
tell me who you are!
i want to shout.
i want to know your name, and your age,
and your origins, and what books you
like to read.
but, perhaps,
i long more to be told what keeps
you up at night.
what makes you tremble in fear, what warms your heart, what you can't bear to love yet can't refrain from loving. i want to know who's sculpted in your memory, which regrets battle in your chest, hell, i want to know why cigarettes make your palms sweat, and why you hate when i light them.
i want to know, badly.
what is m'lord really addicted to?
by the end of the trip the answer will be 'me.'
i tell myself.
i will make sure of it.
