Perfect calm,

And perfectly serene,

As some guitar,

or Bocelli,

maybe even a little

Dean Martin,

serenades from the car stereo.

Darkened landscapes,

hum by my

cool glass window.

Curled up on the

fuzzy carpet seat,

heated air gushing

from the vents

rouging my cheeks.

Lulled to a dreamlike

place, our voices

murmuring quietly,

our eyes dazzled by

the winter skylines,

and the glares on the

ice made by

frosty lamp posts.

This is our

no-mans land,

where no one fights,

and no one yells.

Everything is soft,

and feather-light,

and we find rare peace,

in our little Honda box,

as frost melts on my

cool glass window and

heated air

rouges my

smiling cheeks.