Poem
Hands on the
wheel, changing lanes,
tailgated - no chance
to note you, or
your words’ transparence, ghosting
in time
with road surface, radio music,
the drum of memory.
Knowing
I can’t catch you, even though
you’re near perfection, afraid
one day you’ll be so good I’ll let go,
take my hands off
the wheel in the fast lane,
write you down.
D.
A.
Prince
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