Long, Long, Long

Your mother is driving, or
maybe your ex-girlfriend. The road
makes a sound like your fingers
in your ears. You are warm, and
the window feels like a cold palm
against your palm. It is black
water. It is the pupil of a dark eye.

She begins, softly, to sing
along with the radio. You hadn't
realized it was on. It is
a Beatles song, one you know
you should be able to place. Pretty
and short. It stops, she stops.
The car keeps humming forwards.

It is raining. You are on the edge
of sleep. Every few seconds,
a brightness rushes past.
It is an irregular heartbeat.