Lake Shore Drive

I touch the mirror above the sink with one finger, then two, then lock eyes. And into my iris I'm taken, down, down through blackness until I reform around it again, with the wind of eighty-five down Lake Shore Drive filling my aching lungs. I stand up in the middle front seat, upper half out the sunroof and tossing my shirt to the lake. I can feel the city engulf me, and the sharp contrast to the summer heat the water brings shocks the skin, keeps the eyes open.



She comes up to join me, and we're not kissing each other, we're letting out anything and anyone we've ever loved, never been able to find the words for, and every time we've hit bottom; because how could we ever think language could possibly capture anything human? It is with this that we release it, we pour everything we've ever felt into that kiss, and we step back, wash it down with the comfort of the lights and the sirens. The waves that urge cars to gun it faster, faster, until a sharp turn into the heaven of downtown sends me spiraling back, through the sunroof, into the sky, into my iris, and hearing my skull crack against the sink with a thud is okay too, because I never wanted to wake up anyway.