We keep our eyes shut as we drive, with sweaty hands, heavy collars. The rogues in our body cavities bouncing in solvent cages as we claw at the wheel. The two of us, painting pictures of burning places over each others picture I.D.
Skin on our cheeks tightened, we close in. Blacktop oil drawn to the rain and heated past our tires, waxen slick as the claw palms of water walker spiders.
"When we meet it'll be on the corner of Fist Street and Blood Puddle Lane," you joke, and in your laugh there is an echo that will reach past the deaths of our children's children who will know, for once in their time, something real.