The passengers

Words of poetry

Despite the fact that they are in different vehicles and neither of them is driving, two passengers share eyes. However, one of the vehicles has moved ahead of the other. Nobody is aware of how long they have been traveling at this point. After ascending a steep slope, the roadway eventually vanishes into the woods. The color of the automobile is blue.

The road is icy and heavy with rain. However, there is nothing that you say that will cause me to gently leave the room. I hold your body like a wicker basket, and as you fall through my arms, I begin to load the basket with plums. I then open my eyes and say, "Meet me where the road narrows beneath the naked elm."

Your pain is not my pain. Two pains can exist and not endanger each other. One of them reaches forward. No matter how far they reach, they are connected.

You may have to withdraw your eyes and rest them on the counter. I’ll take you by the hand and sit you at the table. I’ll find the kitchen rug and shake it out. Your hands can sit on your lap and accomplish nothing. Maybe you need a stranger to give you permission.

Two hurts exist all over the world, like baggage carousels at different airports or suitcases in the trunks of separate automobiles. When we dispute, we’re in the same car with baggage and luggage. We could be too near.

My hand becomes a leather glove. We yell, and the gangly cat extends its accordion back. The home filled with shadows of fig trees. Your mother brushes water off the porch. She’s been working at a moist leaf for two minutes, but it’s stuck.

The second automobile is brown. Brown and blue are the colors of the automobiles. Nothing spectacular about any of them, although one is considerably farther down the path. That one is blue.

I attempt to balance paint on an edge to determine which direction it topples. But pain is not an object. It is the wind. It comes and goes.

My coffee is dark, the color of damp tarmac. You never met me when I walked off the aircraft. I returned home and had a beer, then fell asleep. I was exhausted. The home was unoccupied.

The road is hot and arid. Somewhere you’re traveling with my baggage in your automobile. My stuff in your car is a wound. I wonder whether you realize I’m with you. Sometimes you come up in odd ways. The color yellow indicates the school of your graduating. Mostly empty luggage in the backseat. This car’s a bit of a clunker now, but it’s still functioning.

I lost some boxes. Boxes that housed yearbooks and pictures and pages of poorly written writings, unused lightbulbs, and ancient decorations. There were items you wanted me to send back, but I don’t know where they are.

Life goes faster for the passenger in the blue automobile. It’s hard on the eyes being so far ahead. When your eyes were peaceful, and your hands were sleeping on your lap, I gave to you. Then I crammed a suitcase with all the clothing it could contain before I dashed into the downpour.

The blue automobile slows and pulls over to the side of the road with no flashers. There’s you hidden beneath the collar of a flannel coat, all nose and eyes, gazing out the window. Maybe the motorist wants to view a sight. or shift directions. But this isn’t about the driver. It’s about passengers.

Two passengers in different automobiles. Neither of them is driving.

Let’s call them us.

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Hey, I’m Ayoub. I’m writing my debut novel, 20xx, a work in magical realism. I write on Vocal.media.