torrid summer air so thick you
could choke on it, half-smiled
stories were painted of bedbugs
and hidden monsters. you and i,
we're sinners, we're dashboard
lovers who soak in the lights of
the city and speedometer. our
skin turns blue in the night;
we are fiction.

knocking back drinks hours
before, you stopped the glass
on its way to my lips, and you
wore a curl in yours as you said,
nobody drinks gin anymore.

when the car's clock hit eleven,
your hands knew too much about
me. the car was suddenly so small,
and every shadow around it was
threatening and cast by something
bloodthirsty, sinful, and blue:
it's as real as we are.

we sleep beneath beds with
toggled snarls cut across our
faces to scare little children.
[mommy, mommy, there are
monsters under my bed! a voice
one meter about footy-pajama
toes stage-whispers.]
but we're not monsters, we're
something far, far worse.