A Dire Message

This seems to have become a habit,
this late night conversation,
parked in front of your house.
I can see you in silhouette,
backlit by the porch light.

The sunroof is open to the moon and the music cycles through disc after disc
and I think this is real, this is comfortable again at last –
except for that steady look you’re giving me
like you have something to say –
except for that sigh like you’re about to pop your rib cage open
and bare everything to my scrutiny
and to the humid night.

Your fingers are hesitant on the gear shift,
like reaching across the console will close the gap between us,
and you stumble over the words.

And the things you’re saying are sweet,
and I think you believe them.
I hope you believe those things about me.

Don’t get me wrong. I just think that now,
I’m a dream you’re chasing in your head –
a pretty idea I could never live up to while you’re awake,
while we’re alive.

So we trade secrets during the late night car conversation –
because it’s good to have someone to trust,
and it’s good to not need someone,
and it’s good to hear such dark words mixing with the night
to make the stars bolder,
and the moon more full of herself.

And this is as much of myself as I’m ever going to give you,
in these late night car confessions,
cut off again by the porch light flashing
a dire message.