if poetry was a ghost (stay drunk)
“What are you doing in the passenger’s seat?”
My hands on the steering wheel, I turn onto a road where the wheels hum to the same vibration as the gaps between my ribs.
She glares balefully, pupils a crystal clear Every Color and in moments obscured by smoke dancing tiptoe backbend twirl from the tip of her condensed Street Lamp Light joint wrapped in a slow burning silk.
“Your bones get heavy at 3am and I’m a light weight.” Tips her translucent head back for a shot of moonshine straight from the source as the clouds give way.
“You could at least put on a seatbelt.”
The Look. Dilate dark, a black like ink expanding towards her eyelashes. Disbelief haute couture as it curls up her painted flower petal bike pedal lips. “Yeah. Right. Sure. Cause we’re playing it soooo safe here, you been toking that Hope for the past 10min and right about to pass out.”
True. I toss it out the window, the aftertaste bitter as always.
False. I take another huff and sit at the base of my crumbled Ivory tower, ignoring the aftertaste.
Whichever.
A sigh from the right, I look over and see nothing but the trees hovering ghosts out the window.
Another sigh, pulled out from between my own teeth.
“Fine, the sun’s about the pull the trigger and bullet daylight this way soon, anyways. Just remember. Stay away from that goddamn Sober kid. He drives me out of our my mind, always preaching about guilt and going to bed before 9pm the real world wakes up.”
My skeleton gains a few pounds.
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