triplets

i want it. it is you. you is where i want to be.

your hand is on the dashboard
and long fingers, dry
from your dreams of curing the world,
tap triplets in 6/8 
only they're too slow,
only you're too slow

you click your tongue 
(pseudo rhythm)
and your hand slides to the 
bean bag dragon three feet from my smile
bought eighteen miles ago
in some overpriced gas station
on our hunt for the
love and candy bars
we were craving
in these
late night midwestern silences.

i look down,
your hand is on my thigh
as we pass sleazy diners
flashing pink and green open signs
when you're gone,
will you always think of me
as neon?

it's times like these when i forget how to speak

and so we,we,we
stutter
and then we

fall
and we continue on.

he says, "open your goddamn head."
sixteen times for sixteen years
this has become a trend

i'm sorry, but i can't help grin

but perhaps in the steadiness of darkness
and fading stars
this all will feel like profound revelations that
ginsberg and kerouac and buddha
at their philosophical finest
could not epitomize

and our hands will collide
and our tangled breaths will keep in time
with the tri-pull-its and bass lines
and we will be like
the last few moments before sunrise 

everything is 
hopeful
possible
infinite

when we are together.