The windows of this jav are clean.
That makes me comfortable, it shows care.
Care isn’t love though.
If this was a loved car,
It would be all clean.
Not just wiped down,
So obvious bits gleam.
Why can’t I stop myself from seeing,
the familiar, cloudy brown, bottoms and sides?
The pane still stumbles on unidentifiable grains
as it slides.
Love is expressed, in the corners, the cracks,
Away from the flat, accessible surfaces,
Away from the places that are easy to reach,
easy to shine,
Deep. In the crevices, we’d rather hide.
Love reaches in, through, underneath the lies.
The musky smell, and the tout tapping me,
This is not my ride.
You are a space, not meant to be mine.
But the windows of this mat are clean.
So the sun falls on my skin, unfiltered.
For some reason, that leaves me lifted.
Sometimes, care is enough.
So today, it may be ungrateful
To demand love.