Driving unhurriedly

When I could drive for the very first time I gained freedom,

Nights we spent running with the window panes flying low,

music booming with the malevolent sound, like a storm,

in a lightning.

I left home to spend the sunsets shagging in the trunk,

my sanctuary, my den, my trace-sheathed cave,

prints on the blurred glass.

When the smell of new from the laminated license faded and

the flatten-cigarrettes' smoke-screen, pyramids on the ashtray,

as an element of the upholstery,

my temple yet turned into an ancestral building, sacred,

a place of meditations, sobs, under-skin howls,

orgasms, laughs, coldness, heat, sweat and instinct.

A place where to think -- thinking too much,

about us.

It was a night,

when the lighthouse danced more slow than ever,

I became petrified when

I felt the pain of loneliness through my bones.

Despite the freedom, I missed driving in your car,

making love in your couch, drinking through dawn.

We never know how lucky we were 

how we enjoyed every leftover second during our lifts,

wherever we'd go, wherever we went.

Those snapshots, confessing to each other, 

letting go what was fragile and holding on the tip

of our sore tongues. Giving up

and giving all we had left.

That place, coming up with the smallest excuse,

willing ourselves to be faithful to each other.

And while the very of all happened, glory,

driving slow slow slow to catch any landscape.

That way, unhurriedly,

you taught me everything.