literature

Midnight Ride

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Literature Text

It's 11:53.

I'm climbing over the edge and into the right back seat of the convertible, sandwiching my friend between my brother and myself. A bearded 20-year-old I had only met yesterday zoomrockets the car into the Arizona streets, and  

I recall your surprise visit in my dreams the night before—

Where I wasted so much time trying to find out when I had to go home, time I could have shared with you instead.

But it was just a dream.

We're probably at 88 miles per hour when we drive through tomorrow, when Thursday night becomes Friday morning.

The moon is full and blue and shining through thick clouds, and I feel a twinge of guilt for leaving my youngest brother behind. We both know how prone I am to cardiac hemorrhaging, and it seems like I pricked it enough to streak blood this time.

It's 12:03 and we're running a 100, and my thoughts drift to you—

What would you think of me, riding backseat in a chase against the night, embracing the recklessness of youth?

I think back to a September evening where we found ourselves watching soda cans thrown and tossed like carbonated grenades, and you say,

"So we're acting like teenagers." Or something like that.

It's 12:19 and they're asking me to pick the soundtrack. It's basic and eccentric.

The first one's Daredevil—he's your favorite, right?

Then it's Superman.

We're almost home when we switch to that Turtles song, and I can't help but smile—

I'm in a speeding convertible with a potentially distracted driver and dust in my face; I can hear my right eardrum flapping in the wind; I've already prayed to God for safety.

And yet, despite the struggles of the past few months, it's still midnight and

I'm still thinking of you.

Except, now, I don't know when I'll see you again.

And I don't know if you want to see me.

But I suppose I have my dreams
and memories of a midnight ride.
I wrote this poem a day or three ago. It started off as one thing, and then kinda turned into a spiritual sequel to "Scrambled."
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