When I get to the car, the back right tire is flat, slowly seeping out air in silence, nothing dramatic. We don’t do drama, the two of us, we just slowly exhale ourselves into nothing. The spare tire is soft, but it tries its hardest. Late at night, inside the track along the river, I stretch out an aching body and turn the tight lug nuts of my limbs to malleable tools, aids through a life.
September is achingly beautiful, the uncoupled furiously running around to find someone to hold again after a summer of freedom. You watch the frenzy in amusement, wonder if you’re ready to throw your heart into fire again, if it could take one more beating. In my dream, a bus careens toward Las Vegas in the desert at night, and all I could think was how it looked like New York, and smiled. We dive into a tunnel and reappear at a gas station parking lot near an underground hotel.
Even in dreams, we are always trying to make our way home.
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