from the passenger seat

you look just as lovely

even as the flames lick my house

and reflect a bright orange

in the brown of your eye

as the leaves on the trees

turned in autumn, so did

your sights turn lovingly

toward me.

your arms were vivid,

and with the right amount

of focus i can conjure them

but i cannot figure the proportion

correctly so i am left

with solely the imprint.

your answer lingers

even as i wake

that repetitive whisper

of “i think so.”

causing an infinite stirring

somewhere deep within me

for it was so simple, and

somehow so easy for you, and

does your conscious self

operate by the same rules?

thoughts were never enough

to justify inaction.

and how could i ever know

the flavor of chapstick you wear

if you stay stuck in wondering

how to even approach me, let alone

how to tuck my hair behind my ear,

how to tell me you thought of me?