The Backseat of the Car

That night when you brought me home for the first time I told you I felt the safest when I was in the front seat of the car that's going full speed ahead because then I would know where it was heading. I might be the slowest revolutionary but I know I no longer take pride in loving boys who use matches instead of lighters now. Three years of running after things that try again made me forget how to count the miles, but I know the exact distance of it dragging me by my hair. I know all the ways to disappoint you and this is what I've been doing. I sit myself in the back of the car and lean my head against the window with my eyes shut so I don't have to know where it's going. And all that I can hear is the car's engine howling like the thunder and thunder has never sounded so in control. But doing things like this only stings my face like the mistral in November and makes you not wanting to call me again. I have a picture of your apartment in England and it makes me picture you lying on your bed looking out the window after the rain when it's turning dark. I would love to wonder if you'd think about me when I don't think about you, but we all moved on when October ended and I have already met someone new several times. I used to think I would still care about you deep down in my heart no matter how long it had been but I was wrong. Sometimes when you wake up from a dream and you start thinking about it, you will discover all the things that don't really make sense. Maybe that's because there are loopholes in our subconsciousness and maybe I don't really care about you at all. Seeing him isn't another way I discovered to disappoint you, that's why I keep it low like how people hide their socks with holes in them. He's two years older and he's not the type of person who tries again. Everything I've ever let go of has claw marks on it but the things he let go of were intact in every single way as if he didn't want to leave any traces or memories behind. And I had to bite my tongue whenever I saw him so I wouldn't say what I shouldn't say. Maybe the idea of love is great; it's just its capacity that I don't trust. He looks like art and he has a flammable heart that leaves me questioning - ignitable wild thing, can you cry? Can you laugh? Have you loved? And maybe being with somebody so dangerous is the last time I felt safe. I love his mischievous grin and all the trouble he brings. I love how much I don't know about him and yet I feel like I've known him in another life. I love how scary this sounds and I love that he doesn't remind me of you even a bit. I love how he tells stories through rhymes and how reading his lyrics was way much easier than reading his eyes. And I love how I wished he was sober when he wrote that and how I wish I'm drunk while I'm writing this.