Tripping.

Something about the act of motion

these days

nauseates me.

Sitting toes curled in as far as they will go

and I can't quite close my eyes

because we might not make this turn

even though we always have

before.

It's not that I don't trust you

with your long hand on the wheel

and your mouth telling me

where we are going and where we should be.

It's the Road.

I'm afraid of closing my eyes

of losing my head

and being swept away.

I'll end up somewhere I never meant

with a stranger beside me

and you somewhere behind me

at the very tip of my shadow head.

I will never reach you there.

I have tried-

but you always stretch just a little further than I can

and slip into the dark.

It makes me sick to breathe

thinking like that

but I'm sure the Road is just waiting

for me to look away

to think of you or freedom or speed

and I'll be lost forever.

I will never find you again.

Sometimes counting the streetlights helps

or seeing how far I can push my feet

into the thin carpet between me and the pavement.

There is metal too, I suppose

and that helps because metal won't bend

but then I remember magnets

and am terrified all over again.

It is strangely quiet now.

We have stopped and you are looking at me

waiting to open the door.

Today I reached safety unstolen.

Tomorrow the Road still waits

with all the patience of the future.