We're in a car going twenty too fast on the highway, and I don't know where we're headed.
Maybe the headlights will take us to a home where we've never lived or maybe somewhere where the flames aren't as shallow.
Rain has been beating the windows for at least four hours, and I can almost see lightning through all the cigarette smoke.
He says that he can see clearer than ever.
I swear ever since the radio lost signal, I've basically been able to hear the stardust in every shallow breath he takes.
I can't believe all it took was a broken radio to see him for the kind of words he was meant to be.
The kind that rip apart a person's heart when they finally read them the way they were always meant to be read.
His name is just a noise, and his face is only skin;but the fault lines etched into his bones make me want to believe there are more earthquakes inside him than he thinks.
He makes me want to believe there's something more to life than his fingers wrapping themselves around mine as the car wraps itself around a tree.