Starry Hills

It's Thursday; tomorrow's Friday--
the day for trash pick-up;
ordinary Friday,
picking it's way along the decaying rows of days.

I don't need a jacket
to walk to my cold car.
She turns her engine with a growl,
and asks for a little more rest.

Street lights like blurred memories,
headlights behind me like empty phantoms,
everything driving by, silent
as a mute t.v.

Darkness, lovable darkness,
don't remind me you come once a day;
let's spend our solitary hours
together on the empty fluorescent road.

Aren't starry hills
most beautiful
when covered in darkness?

It's dark and I'm still awake,
like I've always been,
and always will be
like the way she never was.

I enjoy to drive at night,
when streets are clear
and my burdens soft.