Night Drive

A lover’s soliloquy

No, not love. 
It was a wild, animalistic passion that drove us into that ditch on that night at that time. Fates aligned my wheel with the desire to plunge us into nothingness. Fate was a backstab.

A stab in the back piercing my lung — no, that was the metal pipe. 
The pipe that slipped off the truck on that night, at that time.

People called us toxic.
Like a gaseous substance that fills up the room and chokes its dwellers until blood gurgles from their mouth — no, that is my blood. 
The blood that gushes from my throat on that night, at that time.

I am used to your scream.
Echoing in the cavern of my mind. Tearing me to bits with hateful lines. Your words are like a carver, taking a perfect branch and sculpting it into an image. It’s not a pretty image; sometimes, it is grotesque, with fluid leaking from every orifice as it aims its sights on its prey.

Your incessant yelling deafens my ears — no, that is the head wound. 
The wound that happened on that night, at that time.

I close my eyes.
I close my eyes. Just for a moment, to rest. I am tired. Not tired of you, my dear. Our passion, like two twin souls meeting in a galactic orgy of romance, will never cease. It will empty into the universe to breed love and passion to the masses.

It will float on the winds and caress mountains — no, that is me dying. 
I died on that night, at that time.

Oh, my love, I do hope you did not depart with me. Live for me, my love; thrive for me; don’t die for me.

Limp and wet, getting cold to the touch, flashing lights and hurried voices. The clanging of the metal jaws ripped open the coffin. 
Not my coffin, only my loves, for on that night, at that time — I lived.