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blueberries for you
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asleep.
you are leaning your head against the car door.
mouth twitching,
forming the words you speak, but no one hears inside the dreams that no one sees.
white lines broken,
double yellow, yellow,
snake curling, swimming in the asphalt river, drowning.
houses, townes, lorryloads disappear, vanishing like your breath as it hits the glass.
kilometers per hour and revolutions per minute record the seconds you leave behind.
the higher the numbers climb, the lower you fall into merciful slumber and the farther away you go, the closer you are to escaping.
"goodbye," you said, and you almost suffocated in the grip of embrace.
it was for the swollen sadness you first closed your eyes, a desperate attempt to stop the present from turning to memory.
a cry for help.
and it was sleep who became your mother.
singing a lullabye of humming tires and whistling wind through the open window.
when you wake, night has fallen, and it is the sun who has gone to bed.
and the tears are salt on your cheek.
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