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Red Light Green Light
The car moves quickly, nearly floating across the black pavement.
You foot is heavy on the gas as we rise
30, 42, nearly 60.
I begin to wonder if the advertisement for the car is true
can a mustang really go 0-60 in 1.3 minutes.
We slow down, the bright read arrow is a half a mile away but its the only thing glowing against the backdrop of this early morning.
We are the only two people at the stoplight and yet we are forced to stop for cars that are never going to come.
"I hate when this happens," you say.
I feel stuck, the engine running but our lack of moving feels so metaphoric.
We have four months until we graduate,and six before we both leave to start separate lives. After two years
of seeing your face every day, I am unsure of how I will handle its absence.
Your eyes leave the road and land on my face, and your hands follow as if trying to communicate thoughts through actions.
My body moves closer, edging into the middle consul as you pull my face into yours.
We have been here so many times before and it feels so safe, as if your lips have become my home.
Your touch fades but your gaze is steady.
The light is still glowing red, waiting patiently, but our bodies our tired and anxious.
"Run the light," I whisper, and you smile, eyes transfixed in mine.
We don't wait to see the green glow arrive, and even as the car begins to move your eyes hesitate to find the road again.
Everything is changing, we refuse to be stationary.