you’re in the left lane on the highway going eighty-five when the road dissolves beneath you. you don’t slow down, barreling towards nothing. the sky unzips and the convertible top is down, rain and hail falling in sheets. you’re drowning. lightning cracks through your chest, and suddenly, you’re right back where you started.
my childhood bedroom is gray. the sky is gray. i think my hair is turning gray. i forgot to brush my teeth before bed last night, but i never fell asleep so i don’t think it counts against me. i get lost trying to find you in my daydreams and find myself pleading for a past life in a present body. i’m scared, dad. i call your number to remind myself this number is no longer in service. i’m so alone, but everyone i’ve ever known is on my facebook wall.
there’s so little of you left where there used to be too much: too many songs you wanted to show me, so many places you were going to go, so many lessons i had left to learn from you and not enough time.
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