Silhouettes

It's that time of night

when the trees are

perfectly silhouetted by a sun not quite set

and we talk about coffee.

And work. And everything else

except for those subjects too delicate to broach

at such an inopportune moment.

We barrel towards a night certain to arrive

before we're ready

and find ourselves

constantly on the verge

of penetrating darkness

protected only by a cocoon

of headlights and fog covered glass

Light crashes over the road

and we trace dashed lines

with spinning wheels

unable to see anything

past the whitewashed asphalt

Our minds' screams

to hold onto one another

echo loudly inside of our skulls

while you grip the steering wheel tighter

and I stare at the darkness