When a car eventually speeds by on an abandoned highway, the concrete
trembles vehemently and sighs with great fervor, before letting the dust
meekly settle on its grey scales once again.
But a highway is not a house.
A highway will never be a house.
It is constructed with utmost precision only to be abandoned
by every entity that grazes its rough skin.
I think I am a highway in the body of a measly human
whose hands harbor craters rotting with love that stands
at the brink of an expiration date.
And my fingers too tremble fervently to feel another hand that
would stay long enough to drink whole the love my palms ache to offer.
This haunting is a predestination and the unkind ghosts
of isolation knows my concrete better than I do.
Which is to say I do not recognize my body at all.
So now when I move towards you with palms facing the sun,
it is with the entirety of my being.
I carry within me unclean highways and vandalized prayer rooms
that promise a kind of reeking love.
