Sequel: One-Hundred Days ›
In the Month of May
Day Eleven: Habit
You bite your lip, I bite my nails.
You mess with the bangs hanging over your eyes, I pull mine back and comb my fingers through them.
You tap the tips of your fingers together, I crack my knuckles. You hate it, but it is what I do.
These night drives are what makes us interesting. We are such normal people, normal in the sense of being different, and though it may sound confusing, it makes perfect sense to us and the rest of our uneasy generation.
These night drives, with the glowing green lights and midnight condensation gathering along the windowpanes, are what makes us who we are. We are normal, so normal that we forget we are so. This habit of yours, driving with your eyes straight ahead but your mind spinning in circles around the interior of your car, and mine, sitting beside you, eyes on the
black shadowed landscape behind the cool window.
It is always this way, our habits mingling and intertwining to make one that becomes a relationship. These midnight drives, these uncontrollable impulses on your account, are the only thing that keep me in this with you. These drives are the only thing worthwhile enough in our fragile relationship to keep my hand in yours as we get through.
Our habits hold us together, in a bond as comfortable as routine, as we sit together inside the hollow space of your car, letting our own seperate thoughts intertwine and inch through space by space. As we sit together, with merely a foot between us, we are in seperate worlds, our thoughts creeping over our legs and slipping between every inch of open space. We drown in our thoughts, together, a habit as strong as anything, is the only thing holding us together.
I am not worried, these night drives and intertwining habits are the only things we have, and they will never become non-existant as we soon will.
You mess with the bangs hanging over your eyes, I pull mine back and comb my fingers through them.
You tap the tips of your fingers together, I crack my knuckles. You hate it, but it is what I do.
These night drives are what makes us interesting. We are such normal people, normal in the sense of being different, and though it may sound confusing, it makes perfect sense to us and the rest of our uneasy generation.
These night drives, with the glowing green lights and midnight condensation gathering along the windowpanes, are what makes us who we are. We are normal, so normal that we forget we are so. This habit of yours, driving with your eyes straight ahead but your mind spinning in circles around the interior of your car, and mine, sitting beside you, eyes on the
black shadowed landscape behind the cool window.
It is always this way, our habits mingling and intertwining to make one that becomes a relationship. These midnight drives, these uncontrollable impulses on your account, are the only thing that keep me in this with you. These drives are the only thing worthwhile enough in our fragile relationship to keep my hand in yours as we get through.
Our habits hold us together, in a bond as comfortable as routine, as we sit together inside the hollow space of your car, letting our own seperate thoughts intertwine and inch through space by space. As we sit together, with merely a foot between us, we are in seperate worlds, our thoughts creeping over our legs and slipping between every inch of open space. We drown in our thoughts, together, a habit as strong as anything, is the only thing holding us together.
I am not worried, these night drives and intertwining habits are the only things we have, and they will never become non-existant as we soon will.