Wide Open Road

In her bed she stopped and said "it's a wide open road" and you knew just what she meant. It's a wonderful feeling, being over, in the beginning, the third instar of a fly. Sixteen days until you die and now you have come alive. Throw off the covers, punch her in the face. The window, the door, get the fuck out of this place. Get in your car or hop on a bus, go fast, stop, go, there's blood on your knuckles but you can't feel any pain. You didn't really punch her in the face but who she is or was or wasn't has been erased from your brain except it hasn't for the memories of vision, hearing, balance, taste, and smell remain. She's okay and it's okay to wink at your heart and high five your mind when you think about that first day on the train and that dress and her breasts and how she caught you peeking at her nipple.

But you are an excitable cell with action potential. Take off your shirt, turn right, there's nothing left in her of you. It doesn't matter who you're with or if you're not or if you read the paper. All paths have now converged at this critical point.




Yet nothing is critical or important or dependent on anything. Your phase velocity has been irrevocably altered and you are leaving the glass at a most peculiar and intoxicating angle. Good bye little boy, it is time to eat the frog and spit on the toad, for this is your wide open road.