Driving beside me,

driving me mad,

changing lanes,

changing choruses,

changeling lines,

changing.

I never thought a new pair of sunglasses would affect me as much as they did

and  here we are

changing lives.

Competing with cunning, biting rhetoric,

tap tap tapping against the cold windows,

and drawing on them with your finger,

competing with that, too.

Those original windows.

In the beginning it was only spoken word,

The framework was a disaster, but at least the the original windows were still intact

The frozen ice still is still intact, too .

Cracking with each careful step.

Breaking apart further with each wail of the approaching siren,

the impending, hurdling meteor.

Brings about the impending ice age.

Brings about the impending you.

The leftover knives stab at nothing, and the same song is playing over and over again,

and you enjoy it just like you enjoy the rest,

like you enjoy the cracking of those original windows

Like you enjoy drawing on them, too.

It just gets better and better and better, because you love every last bit of it.

You enjoy it like you enjoy the knives and the sound the windows make when they rattle.

Now for the crescendo, so beautiful, so played- out,

entirely instrumental at this point,

infinitely distressed, at this point.

Undoubtedly undressed, at this point.

These desert flowers never bloom,

they crumble in on themselves,

like old faded receipts under the passengers side seat,

like a dying star,

like that impending meteor,

which has since come to rest,

Laid to waste across the windshield,

Idling at a red-light, at this point,

with the very best version of the impending you.

(Originally published on Medium 10/1/2021 by Matthew Hopkins)