The Movement of a Hand
On an off white, subtle morning
you stretch your legs in the front seat.
And the road has made a vacuum
where our voices used to be.
And you lay your head onto my shoulder,
pour like water over me.
So if I just exist
for the next ten minutes of this drive,
that would be fine.
And all these trees that line this curb
would be rejoicing and alive.
Soon all the joy that pours from everything makes fountains of your eyes
Because you finally understand
the movement of a hand waving good-bye.