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You are no good.

You are no good.

But you know I can't sleep, having to know. Not until you're wrapped up tight in blankets, clinging to your pillow, sprawled out until there's no room left for anybody at all. Because at least then you're alone, and that's something. And he's driving home alone in a Camaro.

On the night when ten thousand knives fall from the sky, I hope he's swaggering through the soft turns of the night. On the road, afterglow. Three a.m. prince, duke, vassel state, using the high beams to project himself all over everything he sees. Staining light.

Once he's there he's never gone.

On the night when ten thousand knives fall from the sky, he'll be driving. He'll hear one shatter on the stone, another drive itself point-first into the dirt road. One will rip through the front left tire of the Camaro, and one will shatter his headlights, and one will recall his mother, luminescent in memory, cutting pieces of apple pie for dessert. One will be Boy Scouts and one will be animal torture out in the woods, just to see what would happen. One knife will be exactly like the set he got as a housewarming gift, and one will be nothing like them. One, very well placed, will remind him that infidelity is a crime in the eyes of whatever God he cares about. One is forgiveness. The other, the very last, is blame.

The Camaro's remaining headlight gazes up, wildly, into the treetops. He's gone. But once he's been there, he's never really gone.

Posted by Chris at 03:33 PM >> Commentations (2)