He's a benz and I'm his Santa Fe but the way he looked at me made me feel like a Ferrari.

Bright hot red shiny metal glistening in the sun, lust colored eyes revving up my engine (spirit).

Sleek, calm, mature.

Mercedes, tell me when you'll be ready for love and I promise to come running at full speed.

Wet pavement shining
tail-lights like rockets flaring
cars fly down the road.

People often associate men with cars, in a tired and often over played out stereotype that is often untrue.
People who love cars often have a deeper view.
Some believe that the purest form of power is oh so very addictive,
While other love the solitude, and freedom of thought, non-restrictive.
For many it’s the style and looks
And maybe they’ve seen them all in books.
But maybe it’s a deeper chasm than anyone could articulate,
A passion burning bright and great.
And maybe it’s all of the above or maybe something more.
Just know that when someone’s passionate, they could never be a bore.
Cars are like a moving picture book, filled with dents and memories, one for each of the stains,
So seeing a car be crushed, fills them with this unbelievable distain.
They bring people together and cover far and wide,
Causing the distance between loved ones to subside.
They light up our faces and lives and bring on grins five-miles wide,
And when we get our first, our hearts swell up with pride.
So when someone says they’re passionate about automobiles,
To them it’s an immense deal.
This is not a box with 4 wheels of rubber
This was the chariot that brought them to their lover.

Sometimes I hear things when I drive
Most of the time it's car horns
Sometimes it's the screeching of tires on asphalt screaming to be stopped
I try not to focus on it because you shouldn't be distracted while driving
So I keep my hands on the controls
And my eyes on the road

Sometimes in the mirrors I see your face
Glowing faintly like some kind of ethereal movie image
Sent by a projector with a bad bulb
Sometimes I wonder if I drive alone or if you're there
But that train of thought sends my misled hands faulty directions
And I drift out of my desired lane

Sometimes I wonder if the voice coming from the speakers is yours
And if its the same voice haunting the air vents
Whispering lies into my vulnerable mind
I try to ignore them but it gets to me after a while
And eventually my glass house of bottled substance abuse and sustenance comes crashing
Leaving my hands to crawl on a broken field of glass and reanimated pains that slept dormantly at peace

So I staple my hands to the wheel
And glue my eyes to the road
And try my hardest not to cry and swerve into the first car or railing or tree I see
And pretend that face in my mirror behind me is just the trick of the light

I still think about the tree you hit
I never told you that we visited it once after you
But only once

I ran my fingers across the twisted and scarred bark
I studied the missing chunk of wood and felt nothing but an ache in the pit of my soul

I'd visit it again sometime if it weren't for the same reason I haven't visited you:
I don't know where to go.

Roads and highways and backwoods remind me of the cemetery you rest in
Each tree, each house, each street light and sign
All of it looks the same
Much like the gravestones creating the labyrinth you stay in

But if one day I do stumble across your grave
Or that tree
I'll bring you a grape soda and a blunt
And a Mickey Mouse for your collection
And we can talk again
Just me and you

Hopefully I get a response