Neblina

The car was moving too fast
for that road to be the one you imagine.

Your feet have treaded a forty-five-minute square,
countless tessellations of concrete octagons
neighbors interlocking like two hands
outlined with black paint on a silver canvas.

Lost.

A trapezoid ousted your mind's square
and the gloomy clouds blush a deeper gray
as the sun abandons them for the day.
Too stubborn to turn back, you forge ahead
and the highway fills your chest with fumes.

Scarf over mouth
you squeeze past two police cars,
a man guiding his calf on a rope,
and your steps fall in tandem
with the black pairs of flats ahead,
giggling as the buses bathe you in their smog.

At home, the hands joke
that silhouettes, perhaps, were never meant to be.
The outlines may never be filled in,
pulled apart by the whims of life.
Your lips twitch
and the emotion dissipates like smoke on the road:
fleeting to the eye, but lingers for nose
and the fingers apologize.