Taxi

I can't be certain you'll come by anytime soon.
If you're already here, I'm sure you're pleasantly surprised.

It's been a while, nearly a year, since this place had any visitors.
It isn't that I haven't thought of talking to you here. I guess I just haven't been able
to let the thought carry. So, tonight, a few minutes after getting off the phone with you,
here I am, talking to you once more.

While 'Jiyein Kyun' plays away in the background, my mind travels through the city you're in. Through winding roads and pockets of midnight traffic, it settles down
on a street, around the corner from where you live. I'm there now,
an unassuming silhouette of complexity. A light flashes, a cab's approaching.
I wave, it stops, I settle in. I ask the driver to take me where the night will.
He obliges and turns on the meter.

The yellow of the streets soothes and blinds. I pore into the blur like an infant
on a carousel. The mind wanders. It's funny how you were, a few minutes ago,
where I am. Your scent hasn't escaped into the thick air. I close my eyes
to let it sink in. I place you next to me as the car paces on. You're looking out
the window. Strangely enough, you're on the left tonight. Your eyes soak in the breeze created by the moving car. The light plays with your hair while a few stray locks flutter.
You're lost in a trance only you understand. A passing car brings you back momentarily. You turn to direct the driver. Your lips halt halfway, your eyes fix themselves on me. The awe of it all grips you for three seconds before a faint smile tinkers in. 'What are you doing here?', your eyes murmur. An extended blink is reply enough. You giggle, then return the gesture. I nod, look away, then look back at you.
I close my eyes once more, slowly, while my lips cleave the breadth of my face.
The darkness is an eternity.

The car brakes, my eyes open, you're gone. I blink twice, and a fifth time,
but I can't bring you back. Tucked away in bed, a word that reminds you
of me trickles through your head. I bask in the realization.
The night's still young and the journey's far from over.
I ask the driver if I can smoke. He's feeling generous. I throw my head back
and watch fumes waltz about the tip of my nose. I lean out the window to taste
the humidity, it isn't a night for the sane.

Back in my seat, I close my eyes, hoping to find you asking me for a light
when I open them again.