I never sought to catch a car crash, I never knew they'd be so cool. So inviting and surprising and impossible to forget. The wreck on I-4 West is no contest to the mess you made on my block. That Jeep was too old, too cheap, and needed replacement, anyways. The flip was precarious and I'm glad I shared it with you instead of someone who'd drive near straight on the slippery fields of gravel, or maybe it was grovel?
The window was our breathe, and the fuel was our inspiration. The paper ball that knocked you off the road felt heaver than an iceberg...we were just the Titanic. We'd always be that sinking cruise and the ship that sailed too deep in comfort. The Carpathia was an ambulance, or two teenage girls buying condoms for balloons and flying Volvo's in the snow, we couldn't be less sure. I'd swear on this unbuckled seat belt that we weren't driving too fast, though I can't remember a sign, there was something that told me to strap those stranglers over our shoulders, just in the nick of time. I didn't save your life. In the end, We only had enough lifeboats for half our friendship, and I prayed for the souls left in the cold on the night you totaled your car.
I reached the shore and held the hand that grasped my broken wrist amidst the rubble. We tumbled from the ruins and saw those days swing past. No longer could I trust you to drive after just one drink, and never again could I think that seat belts were a drag. It kept us alive, to hold on tight, and I'm sorry I ever let you go. You said you wouldn't leave me alone but you flew to Connecticut and I haven't seen you since. That memory we tried to trap on the capsized boat instead escaped into my dreams, or nightmares, and has laid foundation since. This wreckage we're disguising as disease is contagious enough for you to feel ashamed, it's only purpose, I'm confident.
I wasn't a fan of the bandages and less could I care for the stitches in your hair and the blood that we shared in the street. I'll never see your smiling face, now it's marred with broken bones and an ugly scar stretching from your lip to the base of your neck. We're lucky we weren't next, but honey, I'm sorry, I'd rather drive myself insane then give you back the wheel.
