To the guardrail, to what end?
The tires slipped on Shelby turning towards Broadway and I thought of you then like I think of the rain like I think of getting carried away like too drunk to drive straight. And I’m alone with the lie right now, been alone for a while, and the past has half a mind to give chase. So, here I am, wildly running away, because I don’t know how to say all I’ve got to say.
Wish there was something to say
To the on-ramp, to the highway, to the distance, to this end.
I hear the sirens following me, and I don’t pick up the phone. Money’s tight and I’ve got nowhere to turn. And I don’t know where you are. Where have you gone? Why did you go?
Is the sun too close? Is the air too heavy? Is this damp pavement spinning your tires too? Because I thought of you today and I knew not to, was pulling the trash out to the dumpster and I caught myself with a wandering heart and a sky-high brain and ankle deep in the slop and the mud and the wet-socked truth, the ruined shoes, the last fucking time, the point I’m not getting.
Its been weeks of this, staying convinced that things will fall into place, but all that falls is this December rain, too warm to drape a fitting sheet over this past year’s face. It makes my teeth grind, it makes my jaw strain, like there’s something I need to say but the incessant wheeze, the rattle of death behind my shallow breath is always caught in the way.
Until there’s nothing to say.