Death yet again
We are in your car with more bodies inside
than the number of doors outside.
Deftones' Minerva comes on your speakers,
and everyone sings along.
We do not discuss this. It just happens.
Even when the A/C doesn't work
and the stars are rummaging through your skin
searching for something to claim and split open,
undeterred by the inside of this wet and rusting machine
passed down through your family like a sickness,
your hand brushes up against my hand,
the same hand you were too shy to pull
onto the mosh pit just minutes ago,
while some band squeezed one more encore out of the night.
I say "My fire-haired lover, my sweet-eared listener, my starry confidant,
singing with the windows down is some non-negotiable shit."
As you giggled, we kissed and kissed and kissed.
We kissed lavish kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells,
sucking each rock under,
swallowing it again and again.
Let the rest of the passengers watch.
Let them not look away.
Let them cheer and holler.
Let them taste the warmth, crushed within our mouths.
Let the whole car hush,
as you try to slip into my body,
with all the checkered skirt and thin white blouse, glasses,
little gold earrings you pull on
as you tilt my head up.
Move me to sway in time with our blood's beat,
my willing course.