I hope the desert highway burns my bones
Wears me down
out
like a bag of desperation
My fingers gripping the steering wheel
white against the bedsheets
pale bone straining against the stretch of skin
The cracks on the ceiling
like the cracks of the gun
the finger gun
I fired when I first saw you
Standing on the side of Highway 90
the sun gleaming on your back
you were a shadow
but I knew
I would see your ceiling eventually
Your grip so clean
clean shaven
whiskers falling onto the linoleum
like the screech of asphalt
whisking away my breath
faltering footsteps
voices roaring
the air
shattering
until silence stretches out and mews on my dashboard
as I burn pavement
your flaming house reflecting in my review mirror until nothing
again
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