infinite

--Why don't we do this more often--
she cries over the howling wind
that pours through the holes of
my vibrant, dirty Volkswagen,
and the old, loud pop that I've been listening to
since I first discovered is saving powers
in middle school, as I scream the lyrics
to the cute boy who sees too much pain,
is a little too sentimental, sensitive,
is driving my car down the streets that
I hope to be done with soon.

--Why don't we do this more often?--
she asks from the backseat,
making our faces the peas
of the bright green pod of my car.
This is the wind pulling through our hair
making knots we don't quite care about
This is the knots in our stomachs that form
because we can't quite stand the bottomless ideas
that we can't quite count with our tongues
let alone our minds

--Why don't we do this more often--
and I want to reply, but the
ideas are far too large
for my mouth to spit out
because you're too busy
because I'm too busy
because we care too much
because we care too little
we just scratch the surface of
our infinite souls.