Love Is Like A Car On Fire

Love Is Like A Car On Fire

The car is on fire but I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m sitting in the driver’s seat, holding onto the steering wheel, and I can’t look away. I think of you the way people stare at an accident on the highway. The way they stand on an overpass, their mouths agape while they look on without lending a hand, most locked in place as though their puppeteer felt his heart collapse.

But my spine tingles as I’m stuck in my seat thinking about you. I’m looking out the front of the windshield, watching as the glass gives way and starts browning till it blackens. The leather on the dash is curling, and I think of the way our fingers fit together, laced by some leatherworker who didn’t know what she was doing. Didn’t know what she’d do to the both of us. Didn’t know that we could be made to fit together. We are two different pieces, an imperfect but incredible leather. I watch the dash in front of me fold over again.

I feel the seat belt finally give way to the heat and turn my head. I see the way the colors spin as the engine and pistons melt and hear the whining of the belts as their rubber gives way. There’s a flash, but I’m still here, holding tight. Thinking about you in your underwear, just sitting there. Part of me knows you’re thinking about me. All of me knows you’re undressing me with your eyes until we are nothing but the stars, looking down on our wreckage.

My heart hammers as I see the red lights pierce through the smoke. Like all the cloudy rooms we’d wander into, drunk and disorderly on our own. I was wrong, you’d always be right. I know that is somewhere in my heart, and I know forgiveness is the act of letting it all go. I drop my hands off the steering wheel and hear a knock on the window.

It’s someone, and they’re trying to get me out. I don’t want out. I’m in the hot seat, and want nothing more than to stay here as long as I can. To witness our fiery end, whenever that may or may not happen.

Love is a car crash, and I died on impact. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

I was the worst dancer at your last wedding. Writer and triathlete.

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