22

Saturday night in cars, wally wally, under dim lights
In new places slowly slip back into these old patterns
Face to face we remain, eyes heavy with strain under dim lights
Crawl up on the couch, trying to separate word from word

Five hours of paint, perfume, and fabric
All day spent indoors, try and try, think ahead, start planning
In the corner underneath dim lights feel sixteen again
Time moves so quickly and so do we but some places freeze

On couches, add up the years spent staring ahead, blinking
When do the days lose their meaning, when do we stop caring
How much trying is there until we grow tired of it
Is it a steady decline, a slowing of breathing

Is it a rest or is it a breaking down of will?
Isn't it true that life can (could/will) be beautiful?
-KM

In 1989, my parents purchase a gray van.
Second-hand it sits in our unpaved driveway
with a brown strip along its side.
There are two doors in the front.

Only one door that slides,
it makes a whoosh noise.
Once it took my finger from me
for a few exhilarating seconds.

And in the backseat at age four
I would watch my legs spread out.
Puzzled that they
could become a cushion around me.

In 1996, the fabric falls away from the ceiling
making erasable constellations.
-Hannah