Every night before I fell asleep,
it was there. A bundle of car crashes, twisted metal, bumpers violently kissing
each other in affection and people, people dying swung over hot hoods of their
cars. I was imagining the motorway to Kosice getting sprayed by the remains of
human guts, drowning myself in thoughts of him staying caged in the interior of
the Corsa, nobody to resuscitate him. In his death, I found my own life, in the
destruction of both his and the car’s body was my own reincarnation.
Because in my imagination, I was
always the one to be there and watch him text, eat and drive at the same time
and then his elbow slowly slips off the steering wheel, Corsa hops a bit,
elegantly drifts into the wrong side of the road and crashes, crashes, crashes
in slow motion and I see the caroserie melt and reshape itself around our
bodies, form our last cocoon and our coffin.
This is where we die, all of us,
him, me and our Corsa, in the place in my mind I only dare to release at night,
when the town sleeps and he sleeps and our car sleeps and I am our solitary consciousness
flowing like motor oil inside the veins of us three.
