You Can Breathe While Driving

You can have the purple sky, the horizon of lilac, drink it like water through the open window, down the freeway.

You can have peace and quiet tonight, watch the world shift in colour, spin aimlessly into a world of dark blue, in your room, on your bed.

You can think about your language, the words you choose to say, so specific to you, how you say them, how they dance out of your mouth in certain shapes, how they bounce to the rhythm you, and how they transform things, make them change right before your eyes.

You can think of the word, temporary, how it applies to everything. Temporary belongs to your hands and everything we leave behind. It belongs to everything except death.

You can learn patience from your sister.

You can go for a drive when the roads are empty, and the lights are on.

You can thank time, thank it for it’s healing.

You can remember the stars in your home town, the trees, the openness inside of you that hasn’t left, just altered.

You can practice apologizing to yourself instead.

You can miss him, and wonder about him, and reminisce on quiet naps on his couch, falling asleep to the sound of the clock on his wall.

You can be honest, and willing to be comfortable with yourself, comfortable being touched, comfortable in your skin.

You can decide that the hair underneath may never grow long enough to put in a ponytail.

You can.

You can.

You can.

You can breathe while driving.