I drive late at night, no music or radio, the window down, the nights finally cool.
I drive to the all night diner where a friend works overnight, and I am so restless.
I wished I dreamed of the sea, or empty galaxies, anything but the things I live with.
Garish and bright in the darkness, the diner is bright and beaconing, all these ghosts.
I sit at a booth, and she sees me, and, without having to ask, brings me unsweet iced tea.
We chat, make small talk. I order breakfast. She smiles, her face always sad and distant.
We won’t talk much. Not crowded, but she’ll do side work, or go outside for a smoke.
She’ll keep the teas coming, and I’ll try to read I book I brought, before going over to
my smartphone, and try to find something funny, or spooky, or soothing to insomnia.
I always stay awhile after my meal. She’s working, we can’t talk much, but I love her,
and we find comfort nonetheless in each other’s company, sharing something I can’t
put a name to, but lives in us both and these cursed hours, sadness, distance from all.
The light blocks the darkness outside the windows, glares away the stars and emptiness.
The light that offers nothing more than illumination, no golden hue, no warmth, no hope.
She’s rolling up silverware into napkins, binding them, and I don’t want to be alone, now.