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Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart, the girl he loved has gone, drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares. Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other, the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection. He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed. Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray, he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch. He props his elbows on the balustrade, brushes against the grainy wood tarnished from the skywater. The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows. While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box. She has green eyes and curly red hair. Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure. She's tall and gaunt, but her legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light. He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage. He hops in. The key turns. Booming engine roars out loud. The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives, until he can remember the road map, the one that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist belays across the windshield. And for a short second he wishes that he were dead. Dead so that he could have the perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone. But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away, she's the one who abandoned him, the night after he ate the sweet nectar, the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue. The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping with something similar to apprehension, tense with overwrought poems. The substance lacking from trying too hard, for something that wants nothing to do with him.
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May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
dannyartreads
Drive
Restless in bed, the stir of warmth blossoming in his heart, the girl he loved has gone, drifted from his house to the field of vacant stares. Rainstorms brew in his mind, shifting from one end to the other, the current forming into a large sheet of distance damp with disconnection. He thinks of fire. As he rolls out of bed. Grabbing a cigarette from his ashtray, he lights up. Old habits stay kept in the roof of his mouth. Fresh air permeates through his nostrils as he steps out onto the front porch. He props his elbows on the balustrade, brushes against the grainy wood tarnished from the skywater. The sun droops below the gray cluster of clouds hanging over a horizon colored with blues, reds, and yellows. While he smokes on his cigarette he remembers the girl. Her name is a wrinkled photograph stored in a dusty shoe box. She has green eyes and curly red hair. Her body is shaped in an hourglass figure. She's tall and gaunt, but her legs are toned from running several miles on her treadmill each morning before the dark slips away into the fog of light. He grounds the cigarette out on the porch. He steps onto the driveway. There's a red Honda CRV parked across from the two-car garage. He hops in. The key turns. Booming engine roars out loud. The wheels churn backwards. He pulls out of the cul-de-sac. And he drives, drives, until he can remember the road map, the one that she stole from him to follow her dreams, and hopes, the aspirations that he had once shared with her. A thin, white film of mist belays across the windshield. And for a short second he wishes that he were dead. Dead so that he could have the perspective of an omniscient narrator to oversee everything, and everyone. But where is his girl? She's not the one who got away, she's the one who abandoned him, the night after he ate the sweet nectar, the fruit, little drops of dew splashing onto the back of his tongue. The red Honda CR-V careens down the interstate, windows down, subwoofers pumping with something similar to apprehension, tense with overwrought poems. The substance lacking from trying too hard, for something that wants nothing to do with him.
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