BLITHE

You feel the passing time like icy wind, can't escape, you were cruising down the road at 3 in the morning with your windows down and your hair a floating mess, eyes red and blinded by dust in the soot air. It was worthwhile, you decided, that you were an oiled metal gears in the work. Time myelin. Feet stuck in quicksand floor and head floating in space. You are alive.

Blithe.
You say a lot of things out of reflex when people talks to you. Like a voice mailbox, like a mindless parrot, hollow. I think if I could press reset on your vocal chords, you'd pick up better words. If we could get second shots in a lot of things we'd still get angry at our faults until we stake our invested time perfecting simple shit. Remember on a Tuesday night we roamed the local parking lot on a strange island and you started singing November Rain and I never knew the lyrics and the star sulked in the sky but I hummed as you sing and later on we cried in front of that familiar 7-11. I don't know, for me, it's okay that we'll never know what to say when the time comes for us to say our parts.

And it's okay that we can't draw out ourselves in overlapping Venn.

Blithe.
Pulses can drive from here. You loved the sentiment of maps on the dashboard and sparing a deer's life by swerving just in time not to kill it. How dismantled are your thoughts? You think like the reeling of yellow lines on tar when you go too fast down two way street. Walked out of death so many time and tell him it's not the end of the world when you hit your head on the dashboard. Tilt your head, now, kid. The road is no home with its yellow and white lines. Crack an egg or imagine an ending where your night drive, drives you to the moon. Your migraine starts to perpetuate tar road texture on your brain.

Blithe.
Where would you go with all those sins?