Some Sundays,

I think of long car rides in a place I've never been,

Specifically a roadway narrowed by the most beautiful trees

The journey has giggles and laughs and fun facts I would have never known

It has a premade lunch, wrapped in paper, and many sketches on the back of our foldable map,

As well as a change in tires when one unexpectedly becomes flat

A memorable smile,

Funny voices,

and care that doesn't seem to waver this time.

I also think of you,

not that it matters at all.

Now...

I think of how I've never gotten enough tuna wraps,

Or wise, well-lived advice,

Or the roll of polyhedral dice,

And I want more of what I imagine just about every other Sunday,

But it's behind something I can't seem to inspire,

Like an untouchable memory

But these are all silly things I think of,

Usually every other week,

Because this poem has no metaphor

And there is exactly nothing I need