A Theater Drive With No One to No Place
The tarmac snaked its way across the hillside with firefly street lights lining the edges of a road that led to no place. A deep red sedan galloped up the slopes in time with a pair of white light-laden stallions that raced alongside, leaving nothing but low lit lanterns in the wake of their u-shaped hooves.
Night continued to fold as the rain drops flew down in streaks and shattered against the cold glass of the windscreen; waves upon waves settled on the screen and began to reflect the tired hazel eyes, the smoke trials rising from a cigarette stuck in between the curvature of his rosy lips, and the black of a suit jacket draped over his shoulders along with a tinge of white woven across his chest.
The young man sat oblivious in his seat, and in due time, a violin took her place in the back seat with her head positioned on the chest of her piano, and the pair in a manner of lawful belonging to each other composed a serenade of symphonies for the man and the man alone. Smoke, serenade, and slope; he was no stranger to any of them, and the oblivion in his state was a testament to the calm in his veins and the peace he so dearly needed.
Calm trickled down his cheeks in a wayward manner – just like a leaf falling on an autumn eve, and before he knew it, the passenger seat next to him ruptured, cracked and dissipated, and was replaced by the flickers of chapters long gone – yet never far enough. First came a girl of undeniable beauty and took her place next to him. She spoke in honey-tinted ways – the sort that could intoxicate a saint in a church – but the sweetness, the yellow, and the warmth, was a whim spread across too many to ever be close enough to him, regardless of how much the young man adored her.
Like the switching of a vintage TV’s channels, the honey girl was replaced by another that was an embodiment of pure, untouched silk – the sort you’d see blow in the wind, but never want to touch in fear of disturbing its innocence. She… Well, she was a healer like one of those nurses you see in old war movies that ran across battlefields tending to the wounds of fallen men, with heads full of the desire for glory, and a broken heart lying at their feet.
This time, the young man failed to fasten the seatbelt around her, so as to keep her safe the same way she did for him through a run of countless nights lost to insane misery. You couldn’t change her like the channel of a TV even if you tried, because she was a good person, and that good she instilled underneath all of his classy, ironclad demeanor. She was the sort of girl you’d drop back home with a letter of goodbye placed in her palm, and walk away with sobbing eyes.
The one after was a reflection that sat parallel to his heart – utterly sure it had nothing more to give, but somehow managed to burn through all days, weather and moments meant for it to experience with her, until one day, the flame went dark, and so did the streetlights, the lanterns, and the stallions.
Serenades simmered to a still quiet, and the engine purred to a halt. The moving night stood still like an audience occupying an open air theater in awe of a performance in honest love for the sake of being human; for the sake of being whole, even if it were in brief moments of undeniable joy.
The drive belongs to us, all of us.
