I used to sleep on a mattress and now I sleep in a car.
Her suitcase is vintage, callous and brown marbled; her hair is au courant, silken and without besmirch or splatter. Her mouth is piquant with clementine and water bottle residue. Her eyes are their own cosmic galaxy, amidst their own planets and black holes, so when I beset mine astride hers I feel like the ocular moon.
In all honesty, I feel like I’ve been watching her forever. Roving like a ghost with a boy on her arm, lips quavering, eyes bloodshot, bangs overgrown.
In all honesty, I forget about what time it is- that is until she touches my cheek, and points outwards into the horizon. The recessing sun casts effulgence spreading outwards upon the station wagon in which we sit crosslegged. Though we barely function, we fit together consummately and alluringly. The car and it’s occupants- one of the same.
The air is petrol, ozone and salt. Black, and blue and white. Inhaled inside is tar and matches. Black and blue and passion. Huddled together we think of all that we didn’t accomplish this summer, lighting matches, letting them burn down to our precious finger tips.
I used to sleep on a mattress, and now I sleep in a car.
I never slept alone, but until now, I’ve never slept together.