Can’t
You can’t stand the alone
so you go for a drive
The alone is a thing that lives with you
you want it to leave
try to make it move out
But you can’t
You wish the children were here
Like it was a decade ago
When you were important
to them
To someone
You should call your mother
but she is tender
you can’t make her worry
Your father was too tough for worry
He knew you
You wish you could talk to him
but you can’t
You drive two towns over for an ice cream
because you don’t drink
or do drugs
You wish you did
but you just can’t
Voices of men you’ve tried to love
are your passengers
reminding you of the alone
that you won’t know love
that love won’t know you
You push them away
try to shut them up
But you can’t
Your ice cream melts
but it’s dark
You can’t eat ice cream
and smoke a cigarette
and shuffle your playlist
and cry
and drive
in the dark
So you drive faster
you should slow down
but you can’t
The yellow lines blur
while you imagine
a moose
a drunk driver
a severed brake line
or just a slip of the steering wheel
with your ice cream hands
if you just could
But you can't
You tell yourself that thing again
That thing you recite
over and over
every day
every moment like this...
Don't.
You can't