four o six – Alyssa Teo

we were riding in a car at
four o six in the morning. the street lamps
beaming their yellow rays,
streaking across the faces in the backseat,

ones i thought i knew like the
back of my hand. i drummed my fingernails
across the arm rest, noting oddly that
there was even one in the first place – inside a

common Comfort cab.
at the front seat, i watched the night
sped along from outside the window,
daybreak was only an hour or two away.

glancing backwards, i murmured,
do you think we’ll be friends for a long time?
there was a pause.
i don’t know, you said.

i looked at the two sleeping faces beside you,
shoulders slumped over, relaxed – with the
casual informality of ones who knew they were in safe hands.
i wish we could have this forever, i

whispered to myself as i turned my head,
this is easy.
we were on the cusp of adulthood, at
the brink where we could still almost convince ourselves that

life would always be this simple.
the car crossed over into morning light, and i
wished i could’ve kept that moment before dawn
with me forever.