Our hands converge at the armrest in the middle
We’re stuck in traffic but it’s okay because we’re stuck together.
Ben Gibbard’s honeydew voice trickles out of my Bluetooth speaker,
Filling up the car with the softness of a springtime breeze.
She is fairness
I am her equal, and together,
We are surveyors of today.
The scent of pine overpowers the taste
Wet soil awakens beneath our feet and beneath our tires.
Like the trees and the flowers and the world around,
I awaken anew.
I awaken with you.
Your taste on my lips
It will never expire
You are the endless spring
You are the soft rain that soothes and renews.
I shall feed the birds one more time
Even if my eyes are shut
Even if my breath has ceased
I will give myself away to the last.
Our meeting place is not the quaint park bench under the pine,
Today they meet me on the beach of a foreign land
I have never seen these waters
Never felt this sand
The faintest of booms echo on the horizon.
The crimson shine of bloodied steel,
Unmanned rifles stuck in the mud
Placards of what once was
I lie in a nameless graveyard.
Alone, forgotten, and useless
The Machine has moved on without me.
My brothers will feed the birds soon as well.
The squawk of the fowl and the splash of the sea aid as the soundtrack to my pithy, salty burial.
Perhaps the birds will remember me.