the car ride home

The hum of quiet stings my eardrums

This car ride home has hatched into

a wingless maze—

it unwinds, unendingly, between us,

like the field of wilted sunflowers I

gaze at through the window to

distract myself from you:

whirls of basil green and burnt,

dry yellow—

I think these slender beauties must have really

sealed their fate—

having begged

to be named after the inorganic luminescence of

a star

I want to reach out through the tempered glass and crinkle their

parched petals with

my fingertips—

perhaps it would put texture to the

staleness in

the air right now

Which one of us will say

something?

My thoughts are canon balls—

catapulting from the blades of

windmills in

the distance—

are yours the last few rays of

summer’s warmth

and glow?

Or are they milkshakes—

being sipped up through

the clouds?

All this energy between us (and not)

a sigh

or whisper

The swallowtail tattoo that flutters on

my under-wrist is finally

fading

Not that I wish it to be gone—

but I crave the onyx-green,

wispy ink of time

(and I)

want to use that lived-in pigment, now,

to write a message to you in

the sky that greys before us:

"we’re almost home"

Two more exits pass, and I

can taste the longing in

the space between us—

the unspoken ache

and ghost

of having been so close and present with

something we each desire for

our own,

small world—

a dream that watches us, in waiting

On the east, there is a scattered mess

of stormclouds staining the

horizon—

it seems the Fall’s come early for

our piece of Earth—

one that’s been so plagued with drought

and fire season

(Maybe change might be a good thing, after all…)

And as the wilted sunflowers whirl by us,

I wonder:

what if when my thoughts are batted from the

windmills on

the pasture’s edge— they could be

sown,

like lavender or

poppy seeds—

and this Autumn—for our thirsting hearts—became the

April rain?

We were married on the sun, and

the one butterfly that lived now flies

forever on my wrist in

lived-in pigment—

I drew her there to represent

resilience

You and I—

we’re almost home

*

-Gina C. 🧚‍♀️✨