Burnt Static

We lit sparklers behind the trees.

Your hands were shaking, but you smiled anyway.

I wore a cheap leather jacket--

like it meant something,

if you looked at it right.

​

By morning, we were just wrecks with sunburns,

doomed from the first light.

​

My lips started to sting, tasting the ash.

You dared me to play a part,

knowing it was fake.

​

Matchbox sparks and camera flashes

blur the focus.

​

Memorizing lines

between silence and pauses,

soft-spoken subtitles.

​

I blink slow in the mirror,

rehearsing my reactions--

high on the hush,

and burned out from the rush.

​

Behind the flare,

cold ash settles.

No more burnt edges,

just underwhelming television static.

​

Walls covered in faded wallpaper from the

sun's burns.

We didn't speak--not out of spite,

but out of knowing

too much would come out wrong.

 

There was this weight in the charred stillness

after you stop pretending.

 

You packed your bags like a final scene--

all in one take with no music.

I stayed behind to finish cleaning,

just to have something else

on my mind.

 

Later, I will tell it differently:

better lighting, in focus.

The jacket will be holy for real.

You'll have steadier hands.

I won't stutter in the foggy mirror. 

I'll nail the final line.

​

But for now--

it's just ash stuck to my lip oil,

aloe on my burns,

and silence still burning

past the ending credits. 

​

​