In your eyes, I see a break, so gradual
that I think I've imagined it,
until I notice your knuckles turning white against the worn black leather
as your fingers curl, one hand
around the steering wheel and one
around my wrist, and so
I find myself bracing for impact,

for the moment you will shatter
as if you are the windshield that I stare out of, starting
with the smallest crack, the gradual break,
that threads across the pane of glass, moving outwards
until the entire surface is covered
in a delicately woven web of intricate lines,
complex latticework
threatening to implode.

Despite this, despite the fact that I can practically feel
the ache of my lungs, post-explosion,
searching for air as every inhale, instead
brings shards of glass, sharp and unrelenting,
I am mesmerized
by imagining the way the cracks weave,
gradually, but in every direction,
across the glass. And so, I hold
my gaze to yours,
examining the way the blues of your eyes
slip away as your pupils,
black as the asphalt that we skid across,
expand, like the leisurely waves of an ocean coastline
retreating into uncertain darkness.

I can hardly tear my gaze away.

I almost forget that my wrist lies in your grasp
until my fingers begin to tingle
with the pinpricks of lost circulation
and move of their own accord,
wiggling back and forth, clenching
until my nails dig white crescent moons
into my palm, and then stretching out
as far as they possibly can,
desperate to reach out,
to feel my fingers fondle the fringe of the seat belt,
to wrap my arms tightly and pull my knees
to my chest, hiding my flushed cheek against them;
your outbursts the paintbrush,
my cheeks the canvas, brushed

the same color as your lips, puckered and indented
from where your teeth chew on the fragile skin
when your thoughts go awry,
and the color of the imprints your fingers will have left
against the pale, almost translucent white of my wrist
when you choose the moment
to finally let go.