radio edit --- too much credit given to the source and not enough give to risidual, innocent bystanders. it's a hobby to break my own heart. ---
I am a victim of a momentum -- the moment, 100 mph flight of nervous highway, inspired by touch and shy smiles, awkward silences and eyes that I was never meant to see, a hand I was never meant to clutch. All are elements leading to a result that I have every ability to avoid and no desire to deny, despite the crash and burn. The vehicle that is my heart has a one-way speed ticket, and there will be no reparation for the end, no comfort but a memory that I will surely interpret as something more than it is, was.
It's twisted metal. Cold and manipulated specifically for the cut. Designed to transport my fractions of life with each rhythmic thud, a pulse. It weighs heavy in the cavity, and drags with each day approaching my flight. I never thought I would be afraid to fly. Even as I climb through the air, it will be the atmosphere that drowns me, that lights fire to me, like the sun blazing against the line of a distant horizon. He is just as far away, unable to touch.
Like the horizon, he too will be out of reach. I'm not surprised, but slowly conceding. 100 mph along a nervous highway, the paint worn by shy smiles and eyes I was never meant to see, a hand I was never meant to hold. The road traveled is different at night. Ironically, it was in the day that I couldn't see.
So I closed my eyes and put my foot on the gas, waited for the crash.
I am a victim of a momentum -- the moment, 100 mph flight of nervous highway, inspired by touch and shy smiles, awkward silences and eyes that I was never meant to see, a hand I was never meant to clutch. All are elements leading to a result that I have every ability to avoid and no desire to deny, despite the crash and burn. The vehicle that is my heart has a one-way speed ticket, and there will be no reparation for the end, no comfort but a memory that I will surely interpret as something more than it is, was.
It's twisted metal. Cold and manipulated specifically for the cut. Designed to transport my fractions of life with each rhythmic thud, a pulse. It weighs heavy in the cavity, and drags with each day approaching my flight. I never thought I would be afraid to fly. Even as I climb through the air, it will be the atmosphere that drowns me, that lights fire to me, like the sun blazing against the line of a distant horizon. He is just as far away, unable to touch.
Like the horizon, he too will be out of reach. I'm not surprised, but slowly conceding. 100 mph along a nervous highway, the paint worn by shy smiles and eyes I was never meant to see, a hand I was never meant to hold. The road traveled is different at night. Ironically, it was in the day that I couldn't see.
So I closed my eyes and put my foot on the gas, waited for the crash.