A Silent Drive
“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But of course only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.”
April 22, 2004
It was a silent drive across the Williamsburg Bridge, late at night. She sat motionless on the passenger side. There was no traffic as we sailed along, and you could almost hear the black water of the East River gurgling with indifference below. The buildings shimmered and sparkled through the slightly hazy air. The radio played a song I'd heard so many times that it ceased to be a song at all and became a part of the background, like the hiss of the tires on the asphalt.
I took a breath as if to talk, but realized I had nothing to say. Words were just being pulled from my mouth by the void between us, so I stopped myself.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
I wanted to reach over and brush her bangs away. I wanted to lift her chin and turn her face slightly towards me to see her face and look into her eyes. But I didn't. Her brown hair bounced with the bob of her head as we hit an occasional bump, but she was otherwise motionless. Though not exactly motionless. Perhaps twittering a bit, but so fast that she appeared not to move, the way a hummingbird does. I believed that if I tried to touch her, my hands would pass right through.
"I had fun tonight," she said as we pulled up to her apartment.
"Me too."
