Nothing stays in one place for long

I want nothing more than to write a dream, a story that feels like I feel, that sees what I see, and that’s what I want

Cars run like blood through the veins of the highway. Even in the depths of the night, of the early morning, when even the drivers sleep as I watch from above. Cars and trucks flow with lights that glow gold as the sun then red as blood. A small flame joins the lights and a tiny crackle accompanies the gentle feel of smoke flowing in and out of my lungs. Nothing stays in one place for long. I slipped on the ice of the overpass as I turned to my car to leave. The car warmed quickly and the green and blue of the radio and speedometer illuminated the grey smoke that soon encompassed me as I drove to the Sad-Eyed Girl’s house. I arrived when the clock read 2:36, making it 2:29.

buddy, im outside, let me in your house its so cold

Okay, hold on.

The Sad-Eyed Girl opened the back door and I slipped in and up the stairs to her room. “Buddy,” she says, “where’ve you been? You were supposed to get here at 9:30.” I buried myself in her bed, under the covers and blankets of my best friend’s protection. “I went for a drive,” I answered and closed my eyes. The bed shifts as she makes herself comfortable. “Where?” she prods. I don’t answer because I don’t remember. I slip into a dreamless sleep engulfed in warmth.

I awoke at 10. My body ached with sleep and my friend was still firmly grasped by the hands of night. I slipped from the warmth and down the hall to the cool-tiled bathroom. My phone filled the room with quiet music as hot water rained down on my naked form. Borrowed soap was rinsed by borrowed water that was dried by a borrowed towel before I covered myself with borrowed clothes. I left the wet air of the bathroom and returned to The Sad-Eyed Girl’s room where I laid down, calm music still quietly filling the air around my phone and me. The Sad-Eyed Girl woke at 11:07. She looked at me wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Why,” she asked. “I don’t know,” I answered. I never know yet I am always sorry. Guilt follows me like a starved dog. It seems but a matter of time before it goes mad and consumes me. My friend reaches for her phone to check the time. It is 11:12. “When do you have to go home,” she asks as she reads the time on her phone. “By curfew. By eleven,” I give the same answer twice. The day passes in an hour. Movies, TV, cigarettes, snacks. It is 10:26 and I leave her house and in a moment arrive at my own at 11:02.