Sitting Shotgun
She told him to hum into the bottle, slumped stoic in the dark to hear her thoughts. “Move the unsound viscerally,” she said, as she twisted in the seat to give him her full attention. Layered in the silence, a veil of sleepy time slumber had kept her pitch steady while she was away, and he was the one to unclothe it. She watched, and she begged without begging as she pulled tight the wool over her eagerness out of respect for grace, but the moon watched, too, as he leaned deeper into that green abyss. And Buddha himself, blown into impression, laughed as childhood pulled back before releasing forward again over flesh and enamel until the quiet cracked. The ride roll waked beyond the mistake unknown, wherefore the unseen sentiment sat cross-legged within the scope of his direction. And as the wind spun, and she held her breath, ripples gathered waves and the waves whipped coordinated-like and through and through the baritone vibration. The fork, in the moment, understood everything all at once. Meaning existed unclaimed until seen and she saw all from the passenger seat of his car.
