By Samantha Moya
You’re making a left turn,
and I, in all of my hazy contentedness,
smile at the way you tap your finger
on the steering wheel to the beat of the music.
You might sigh heavily at the oncoming traffic,
your impatience endearing.
Sun peaks between cumulus clouds,
you just keep driving and driving and tapping and driving.
I think about exchange rates of experience,
how bodies hurl through time and space,
the inertia of relationships and love and regrets,
how tied we all are to our anxieties and fears.
And yet like this car, we just keep moving.
When you glance over at me, I give you a grin,
this found language we have that keeps us in sync.
You change the music,
something a little bit more upbeat,
a taste of the sun that is coming out,
we talk about something banal,
but it still feels meaningful because it’s between us.
I pick at a stain on my jeans,
you spray the windshield fluid to clean off the grime,
I contemplate that even when this car stops moving,
we never do.
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Samantha Moya is a data specialist with a Ph.D. in Political Science from the University of Colorado Boulder. She does her own writing and arts on the side. Her work has been featured in Serotonin Poetry, The Raven Review, Epoch Press, and The Poetry Question. She is originally from Albuquerque, New Mexico and currently resides in Denver, Colorado with her husband and two dogs. She can be found on X/Twitter and Instagram @samanthalmoya.