You’ll read your bible, whatever it may be, though we’ll never understand it you say. And you will bear your burden until you cry and we all stand up to be your chariot and carry you in your finest luxury to the edge of the water where you will kneel and lean in with your feathered helmet under your arm and some one of us who is exhausted by your demands will place a heel on your upper back, and with just the slightest force, tilt you in. And you, in all your finery, never really bothered to learn to swim.
She was ripened fruit and budding flowers, upper-class meals and bubbling champagne. He was burning gas and dirty oil, hard liquor and cheap cigars. Any other night, they would never cross paths, but she was desperate, and he was good with his hands — a mechanic that could make a shitty ‘67 Firebird look, run, and sound brand new. So somewhere between drunken conversation at “nobody remembers the name the next morning” bar down the street, and seductive smiles and flirtatious giggles, and cum-stained blankets that smelled like flowers soaked in gasoline, they found each other. Then at six o’clock the next morning when the first thing she saw was him, and he opened one eye to see her, they were met with visions of burning flowers and fruit bathed in oily fingerprints, upper-class meals coupled with shots of hard liquor, and nights ending in a rolling fog of cigar smoke and popped champagne bottles. And those visions lit by the rays of the rising sun fueled the fires of their desires, feeding the flames that led them right into their graves.