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.