Praying

-Sometimes with the windows rolled up,
the radio off, I feel I’m going crazy.
It’s like dancing on the fifth floor,
the lights off, no one watching,
four in the morning
with the impression of no one
special, all those faces
who’ve come and gone.
The words keep coming,
frantic vibrant flowing;
I’m talking to myself again.
Even as the world speeds by
in my rearview, I continue, sometimes
yelling at the top of my lungs.
There are moments when I think
of sobbing, as if that will make my lament
more real, perhaps heard, by some
greater spirit, or simply someone.
It’s like pretending in the darkness,
your eyes closed, each footfall
leads you closer, to rhythmic whole.
Through blurry eyes and a dried out
scratchy whine, I glance across
individual, parallel lines, to a blue bubble,
she sits inside, wincing at my sight.
My lips, though silent, continue mouthing
word after word, as my eyes droop,
and I think, if you were me,
you’d be talking to yourself too.