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  • Writer's pictureClare


by Aidan Lilienfeld

The door is closed.

I like you but

you’re just so cool,

like tile walls under

incandescent cerulean,

midnight glow.

Where are we?

Imagine, just you and I,

the parkway, lush canopy,

driving with the setting sun.

Can you see it?

We’ve been here before,

haven’t we?

This unoriginal imagery,

this wide boulevard,

reaching to the horizon,

hopes rise here.

At 50 miles per hour

I see a flare of golden light,

70, a girl in the seat beside me,

looking away, west, her hair

windswept, splayed about,

the color of the sky.

What is the purpose of this?

We are going nowhere.

You could never live up to my dreams,

I would never give you the chance.

It’s not you, it’s just that…

I like being alone

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