you said you liked me too much that I should get away while I can you were drunk, stared at me in the mirror eyes half aware that tomorrow morning when it came on slow feet yes I would be the one who remembered your words so I sat back, tipped my head at you wondered if this time I’d be dangerous infection or accident, a car crash or if maybe I’d just pass through a gas station on a country road maybe I’d be the one holding my head in my hands staring down the road after you wiping the blood off my face I remember us driving across the state hot sun streaming through the windshield watching the trees shake in the wind and the river as it rolled by on slow feet sometimes when you look at me everything inside hurts like your heaviness against my ribcage last night when sleep finally took you and you slumped comfortable speaking as though your mouth couldn’t keep up with your thoughts lately I’ve been finding reminders of my own vulnerability stuck fast in the landscape staring out at me from black cars blue rave crowds parking lots of fast food restaurants fear erupting a window of opera notes I cried in front of you once but I don’t think you noticed it was a frustrated sort of cry to begin with you held me in the dark while dust flew violently around us and police sirens complained in the background soon after the mirror breaks, and our tiny images are scattered on the floor we’ll turn the light out backs turned, and leave on slow feet