the line which passes through reality and delusion.

the engine sputters, stalls, to die,
in the cool summer air,
somewhere along this winding road
and despite all of the miles ahead.
in clear denial of the towns
and the cities,
yet to be traveled.

they are alone here, for now.
miles north of them, a house, maybe.
the question of its shelter
in the foreboding nature of the moment.

she would rather stay,
to wait
for the morning light to shine through,
waking her with the warmth
against her skin.

he would much rather keep in motion.
"she isn't just going to fix herself."
and in his motion,
find the clarity
  he cannot be without.

the moon, overhead,
which had been content
in following them before,
is now stopped, yielding,
to create a glow
with which to guide them
through the absence of all other light.

his hands, still clenching the steering-wheel,
loosen.
he looks before him along the road
lined with trees;
dark figures enveloping their path.
wonders where this is leading him.
if somewhere, possibly due west,
east even, if it must be,
there will be hope.
knowing that what is absolute
could never pertain to a space,
even a moment,
nor the grace of an accompanying hand.

she is herself, tired.
her lucid smile and plastered beauty
have granted her nothing
beyond similar faces,
ever-changing names
and flattered conversation.
she is herself, battered.
her thought, of the world's inability to change.
what will it ever have to really offer?

"what i need,"
he speaks softly now,
as if to barricade his words,
hold them from escaping too far
into the darkness,
caught in the draft through the open window.
"is only to be near you."

and in an hour or two,
the morning;
some igniting force
for moving onward.