Somewhere in the mind’s eye,
There is a posthumous form of her,
Sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat,
Fingers dexterously separating the entangled ends of her hair,
Flirtatious in their demeanour.
A loud jangle of his car’s stereo,
Painting the city skyline,
In all moods of rock ‘n’ roll.
Remnant balminess of merlot within that space,
Blends with the occasional whiff of nicotine.
Their loud genial banter,
And the shrill drunken squealing,
Zipping through the highway,
With a flair for sheer abandonment and debauchery,
Her giggles garbed in tender longing,
And his fervent, surreptitious stares,
Following her like a forbidden territory.
It was litter,
Of seconds lost in emotional squalor,
Of the could-have –beens and meant-to-bes,
Litter that scarred their souls,
Litter that consumed them whole,
Litter that makes you wonder whether there is something,
In nothing at all.