happy things come in prose

certain songs make me wish I had a car to drive really fast in and feel the wind through my stubby little hair. to watch the lights whiz by, charged with some silent electricity, splattering electric streaks all over anonymous boulevards and buildings and me, alone in the front seat. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but sometimes, certain songs thrust me into some clunky car that's headed nowhere in particular, the sun burning the dashboard and my feet as boy turns up the radio and rolls down the windows and tells me not to take a picture when he's singing along and i say okay *click* and my beach hair and my white shirt and my straw hat all threaten to blow away in the wind and, when i breathe in, i taste the heat and sip on my sweating tea and everything is ruffled, shifted,and nothing is out of place. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but when we speak, everything is heavy

and i'm not driving to meet boy for dinner or to see a movie

playing a prelude to a memory

instead, i'm just crying to solitude

but he tends to ignore me

and he's simply not worth it