running on Not-Quite-Full

I can't even. What am I doing? Or him, for that matter. Where's he going? Where's he want to go? I don't see a "we" in this future. Or now either. What is this? Where am I going? I could just slam the breaks, stop, and say, "Here's where you get out, Mr. No-name." But I doubt I will. But . . . but . . . but . . . .Admit it. You're not ready to cash in your chips. Admit it, I'm not ready to end the game, to give up the danger, to detox from this high. Maybe I'll never get another chance. A chance for what? Ecstatic sex? Such electric silence? Think about it. They could all be wrong. They could all be wrong about communication, soulmates, connection, like minds, all that shit. You never hear them say, 'You're compatible if you can sit in a car and not say anything through the whole fuckin' state of Utah.' In this case, the whole nonfuckin' state. Roll the dice. Flip a card. Exquisite wordlessness or Dante's 89th circle of same. Finishing each other's sentences like some kind of verbal orgasm or doing the same and calling it narcissism for couples. Stop with the couples, please. I told you. No such thing. Speaking of stopping, I could stop at the next corner. I mean, the other one, the one after after that. No one's there. Man, would he be shocked. Or would he?