When the world is in its softest sleep, we are awake.

We are roaring down the highway

past city lights and nostalgic meadows.

We roll down the windows, and

a heavy petrichor fills the bitter cold air.

The night sky is stippled with unbounded universes,

and I swear our freedom is nearly tangible.

She turns to me and asks me to put on

our favorite song, our song.

The melancholy tune that we know all too well

shakes the car at top volume, and although

neither of us have the heart to acknowledge it,

I know we both have silent tears in our eyes.

And when it's over, and the final chord

strikes through our hearts with a gentle sigh,

I swear I can feel the weight of my sorrows

emanate out the window and into the night sky. 

When the world is in its softest sleep, we are awake.

And we are alive.