I am looking for what's left of my broken heart In the space between four and five thousand rpms.
There's a dark chocolate Milky Way in one hand, And a noisily rattling gear shift under the other, A steering wheel under my left knee, espresso In my cupholder, and my right foot on the gas.
As if tearing my way through the entirety of Virginia With streetlamps illuminating tear-stained cheeks And a voice gone silent from too much screaming And eardrums dysfunctional from too-loud music Can unmake the pain riding in my passenger seat.
I already know the answer, but I like playing dumb.
I know I'm just running; I know this is not healing. But, for right now, it's helping. It's a local anesthetic. It stifles memories of misplaced trust and heartache And things that I know were not my fault but I blame Myself for anyways. You. I blame myself for you.
So here I am, world illuminated by insomniac headlights, Looking for the face of God in a Christ-haunted world.
Time will always be split: before and after. There's this place in between, and I call it heartsick.