Sometimes, when I’m driving alone at night
on dark and lonely roads,
I like to pretend that I’m the only person in the world.
Sometimes I come up with a reason why,
other times, I just go with the feeling the idea brings.
I’m alone –
the last sheath of humanity,
guarding the world against self-implosion,
moving in a tin can.
I’m special –
the last scabbard of humanity,
unbound and prepared for attack,
propelling forward in a tin can.
Then another car comes along.
I’m not alone –
there’s another person beside me
moving in another tin can.
I am not the last vestibule of my species.
You’d think a weight would be lifted from my shoulders,
but as the headlights of the other car blind me,
my heart deflates at the thought of having to share