Hikari (My light)
You sit on the backseat of Matt's car, the wind in your hair. "I need a cigarette." you request in that high-pitched voice of yours. I pull one out of the blue and white package and toss it to you. You light it off mine, inhale deeply and blow the smoke by the open window.
Music blasts from the car's speakers. People stare at us from the side of the road. We're free, I think. Free, and they're jaleous. They're stuck in the little jobs, with their little spouses they may have loved one day, and little boring jobs they wish to quit, and they secretly lust for the playboy models. You laugh, and I kiss you. I love you, I think, as the old Chevy Nova quietly makes its way to the freeway.
It's deserted, because it's so late. The streetlights splotch the concrete with light. Light, and I kiss you once more. Light on the car, allowing me to see what's going on. I love light, because it reminds me of you. A tiny sun.
You start singing along with the radio, old songs from the sixties, the Beatles, Bob Dylan. Soon, Matt joins you.
The air is heavy with summer humidity. The a/c is open to its maximal capacity, but we can't feel it on the backseat. You don't complain, though, you just sink lower into your seat, your thighs glued to the faux-leather.
Matt u-turns on the highway. The tires screech, and for a minute, I'm afraid. Mainly for the car, half of it belongs to me, but also for you.
For you are Hikari, my light.
You sit on the backseat of Matt's car, the wind in your hair. "I need a cigarette." you request in that high-pitched voice of yours. I pull one out of the blue and white package and toss it to you. You light it off mine, inhale deeply and blow the smoke by the open window.
Music blasts from the car's speakers. People stare at us from the side of the road. We're free, I think. Free, and they're jaleous. They're stuck in the little jobs, with their little spouses they may have loved one day, and little boring jobs they wish to quit, and they secretly lust for the playboy models. You laugh, and I kiss you. I love you, I think, as the old Chevy Nova quietly makes its way to the freeway.
It's deserted, because it's so late. The streetlights splotch the concrete with light. Light, and I kiss you once more. Light on the car, allowing me to see what's going on. I love light, because it reminds me of you. A tiny sun.
You start singing along with the radio, old songs from the sixties, the Beatles, Bob Dylan. Soon, Matt joins you.
The air is heavy with summer humidity. The a/c is open to its maximal capacity, but we can't feel it on the backseat. You don't complain, though, you just sink lower into your seat, your thighs glued to the faux-leather.
Matt u-turns on the highway. The tires screech, and for a minute, I'm afraid. Mainly for the car, half of it belongs to me, but also for you.
For you are Hikari, my light.
