Staring Out of a Car Window

The yellow line dividing the highway from the median
waves with the minor sinusoidal jerking of a human hand
hoping to keep us steady in our partition of the tar.
Our conversation of teenage turmoil forms
over the low rattling of uneven pavement contact
and I feel helpless.

I've never ventured very far from logic.
My desire to date unnecessarily quirky girls
because they weren't what I expected to want
juxtaposes perfectly with my cynical atheism.
I wish love had been more visceral. If only once.

Experiences I never had are easy to judge
when others flippantly announce them
like parents ready to embarrass their child
with stories of poop or mis-learned words.
Childhood is the opiate of self-perception.

I wonder what it's like to "let go."
I think I'm too inquisitive for that;
a spectator caught in the playing field,
meandering and disoriented
with more interest than skill.