Corners of eyes,
Crinkle like parched riverbank,
Parchment paper being crushed slowly,
Arching eyes a deep,
Which white ignites,
Reflected from the cars’ strident headlights.
A genuine laugh, muffled,
As if it fought its way, through layers of viscera,
To reach the surface,
A breaching whale, whose mere presence,
Calms the sweaty palms on the steering wheel.
And the silence that follows,
As the alive night pours in the roof,
Where you said the rain wouldn’t,
But the quiet tide of the vital night,
Reaches us, and there is no need for words,
To paraphrase and summarize,
The thoughts that conduct like deep-sea electricity,
Between two piling silences, full of breath.
And the wind whose fingers whisper,
In our hair and on our faces.