the sky aches

we put translucent tarp down before we hit the road, but the tape is weak and it peels in the corners. the boy gives me a half smile and then nicks his forefinger. i try to hold this silence with a reverence. i’m all eyes, i look at them like they’re minor gods. this is just a story, i’m following a script, i carry myself carefully, try not to improvise.

i pull the knife from his grasp and run my fingers over every edge, rub them together when they come back with entrails. our breaths loud and tremulous, all one word, one movement away from startle. i want to say i won’t hurt you, but it all catches in my throat and maybe that’s what they both want anyways.

i press my fingers very gently against the boy’s face, feel the way his jaw moves as he licks his lips. we’re all ravenous for something nonphysical, trying to push each other’s boundaries without crossing them. we’re all chaining ourselves to the gateless walls.

the girl waits to see which of us will flinch first. who wants to do it, and who actually will.

we scare a flock of geese out of the underbrush along the highway as we drive by, their honks accusatory. the girl finally speaks and her cadence is unnatural but we rejoice at the sound of it. 

one hour till we’re home and of course, by home, she means the creek, the old boardwalks dipping into the sprawling wetlands, the place the city finally built a bridge over so we could stop jumping across or slipping over fallen logs, where i corkscrew my hands into the earth to stop floating, fireball burning just below my throat, either not daring to make skin to skin contact or the three of us draped on each other like heavy blankets, backs aching, stars unforgiving.

i shift my body weight but even that feels too loud, like we need a few moments of silence after this revelation. the boy starts to clean up the mess he’s made as the girl pulls off the highway.