You are slouched in my passenger seat,
moonlight softening your clenched jaw.
The vein in your temple flutters,
and I imagine that, beneath your skin,
there are roots and coils that sing
in an alloyed language of confusion and melody,
arteries laced with red and purple promises
that your heart recycles in rhythm.
Current flows through the black spaces
between your joints and brands your bones
with reminders of their acute fragility.
But you are more still
than I have ever seen you as you stare
through my windshield into the velvet night,
and I am making things up again.
I crawl over to the passenger’s side
and nestle myself into your sprawling geometry.
You whisper that you are scared
for morning to come
because it means another tangled tomorrow,
and I wish that our body heat was enough
to weld the walls of our atria together
and make your future into ours.
But contact cannot fuse our cells or our stories,
and the quiet galaxies within our skeletons unbind us
into momentary strangers, moonlit and afraid.