Gun to the head,
and the car drunk,
shifting from side to side,
in a box of lipstick and leather,
and the engine is her roar.

You are the gray cloud,
that reminds me we were once one.
We were this cease-fire,
these kids in the backseat.

But no,
you are the driver’s seat,
the saddle kidnapping me.
And they will know us by our footprints,
see the signs of our struggle in the mud.
They will say he fought for her,
and she for him,
until they fought one another,
like the right against the left.