Oh god, if only he loved me.
Are you aware?
The radio says: "I don't wanna be a murderer."
You say: "You know, I've never understood that song. What is she talking about? Is she killing someone?" You gun the engine as the truck executes a chocolate-smooth turn around the curve. Your eyebrows furrow in the rearview mirror. You glance at the angel. It shrugs.
The angel says: "Ask one of the girls."
You say: "Girls? Anyone wanna explain it?" You turn your head to glance at us for just a moment before refocusing on the road. Your eyebrows are furrowed in the rearview mirror as always. To tell the honest truth, that's the main reason I love driving with you. I love watching your eyes in the rearview mirror. It's always felt somehow symbolic. You glance at your daughter. She shrugs. You glance at me. I shrug.
I say: "She's hurting him because she's sleeping around." I shrug again.
You say: "So she's killing him emotionally?" You raise one eyebrow in the rearview mirror.
I say: "Yeah. She's killing him on the inside." The song reiterates my exact statement. You nod in the rearview mirror.
You say: "Okay. I think I got it." And it's funny, because I am one breath away from adding something more, but then the angel stops me.
I almost say: "Sort of like the way the sun's silhouette is making your only son riding shotgun in your truck look sort of a lot like an angel. Or maybe he just looks like an angel because he truly is. It is that sort of hurt. The kind on the inside that aches and throbs and nothing makes it go away. The kind where it is painful because you want something you can't have." That's what I am one breath away from saying when the angel turns its head, giving me a lazy stare with omnipotent eyes, curious and brown. It makes that one breath of mine sort of catch in my throat, and I don't say what I was originally going to say.
Instead, I say: Nothing. I pull my eyes away from yours in the rearview mirror to meet the angel's in the side mirror. They are still lazy. They are still omnipotent. They are still curious. They are still brown. They sometimes like to tell me important things that the angel can't say out loud, but at the moment they are transfixed on the muddy lake, overflowing with clouded water.
The angel says: Nothing.
You say: Nothing. You execute another chocolate turn, pushing the engine to a speed that is probably too fast. I'm not wearing a seatbelt. Neither is the angel. I trust the angel quite a bit more than I should, and so when it doesn't wear a seatbelt, I don't either. I would rather die with the angel than live without it.
You're wearing your seatbelt, but then again I don't think you are aware of the fact that there is an angel riding shotgun in your truck.
Well, there is.
Words by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 679 times
Written on 2006-06-29 at 08:46
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If Only, If Only.
There's an angel riding shotgun in your truck.Are you aware?
The radio says: "I don't wanna be a murderer."
You say: "You know, I've never understood that song. What is she talking about? Is she killing someone?" You gun the engine as the truck executes a chocolate-smooth turn around the curve. Your eyebrows furrow in the rearview mirror. You glance at the angel. It shrugs.
The angel says: "Ask one of the girls."
You say: "Girls? Anyone wanna explain it?" You turn your head to glance at us for just a moment before refocusing on the road. Your eyebrows are furrowed in the rearview mirror as always. To tell the honest truth, that's the main reason I love driving with you. I love watching your eyes in the rearview mirror. It's always felt somehow symbolic. You glance at your daughter. She shrugs. You glance at me. I shrug.
I say: "She's hurting him because she's sleeping around." I shrug again.
You say: "So she's killing him emotionally?" You raise one eyebrow in the rearview mirror.
I say: "Yeah. She's killing him on the inside." The song reiterates my exact statement. You nod in the rearview mirror.
You say: "Okay. I think I got it." And it's funny, because I am one breath away from adding something more, but then the angel stops me.
I almost say: "Sort of like the way the sun's silhouette is making your only son riding shotgun in your truck look sort of a lot like an angel. Or maybe he just looks like an angel because he truly is. It is that sort of hurt. The kind on the inside that aches and throbs and nothing makes it go away. The kind where it is painful because you want something you can't have." That's what I am one breath away from saying when the angel turns its head, giving me a lazy stare with omnipotent eyes, curious and brown. It makes that one breath of mine sort of catch in my throat, and I don't say what I was originally going to say.
Instead, I say: Nothing. I pull my eyes away from yours in the rearview mirror to meet the angel's in the side mirror. They are still lazy. They are still omnipotent. They are still curious. They are still brown. They sometimes like to tell me important things that the angel can't say out loud, but at the moment they are transfixed on the muddy lake, overflowing with clouded water.
The angel says: Nothing.
You say: Nothing. You execute another chocolate turn, pushing the engine to a speed that is probably too fast. I'm not wearing a seatbelt. Neither is the angel. I trust the angel quite a bit more than I should, and so when it doesn't wear a seatbelt, I don't either. I would rather die with the angel than live without it.
You're wearing your seatbelt, but then again I don't think you are aware of the fact that there is an angel riding shotgun in your truck.
Well, there is.
Words by MiVidaDeEpílogos.
Read 679 times
Written on 2006-06-29 at 08:46
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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