Wreckage

Our velocity is volatile.

I console you over the car console

with my mouth, but this

is no way to have a conversation.

You take trees for toothpicks

as we ride, no sign or exit in sight.

 

Distance feels like dread,

a text to your Dead Girlfriend

whose ghost is in the backseat, smiling.

We are southbound, parts dragging

in the rearview—one ironic liver

swerving through the passing lane.

 

Down that fucking road beer.

Light our dark and lonely drive.

You pay the guardrail no mind

and I watch the black tar turning.

Hold my mess of limbs, baby.

Stroke my head as we tumble.

 

Is this the last of our fumbles

with miles and hours and me

and your Dead Girlfriend’s ghost

rolling like crushed cans, rattling at every bump?

I wish for stillness, a sudden breakdown,

for you to simply say we’ve arrived.

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