A Roar, but Soft
Did I mention the things you can see on the road?
The sacred home away from home of the automobiles and lorries and cement mixers – the longest home you could ever wish for.
(Garages are for the lucky few fit for owners who could keep another cat or two)
The trail of yellow flame that fell while the streetlamps were turned on and everything was a sickly ochre?
One mynah, quenching its thirst, does a jig, like hopscotch, off and on, off and on, until finally, the tiny puddle, condensation from a car, is undisturbed by others, which are, ironically, just like its source.
That black and white body that heaved as its life pumped heartily out of its side (for having the gall to trespass), its eyes glass, its legacy absent?
A tender moment, prohibited, thrilling, that gaze that falls upon the pair of eyes that watches the pair with long hair link palms, fingers, and maybe (just maybe), hearts.
The night is young, and so are they
and so I tread on the tarmac until (hopefully, never, but sometimes) those growing, engulfing twin lights stab into mine.
They always win the staring contest.