Between Front Seats

Sun floods the cracked leather, dry as skin,

dust settles like sleep on old paperback spines.

Knees pressed hard against the seat’s fold,

fingers tracing maps on faded seams.

Voices muffled upfront, the radio hums low,

my world reduced to this narrow space.

Books stacked—dog-eared pages cracking

under my weight, a fortress made of paper.

The window frames a blur—trees and sky

folded like thin blankets over my shoulder.

I pressed my face to glass, longing to be

both nowhere and everywhere, in a back seat

where time paused, but never stopped.