you like to make him panic, make him scream and clutch the seat of the car as
wonderfullyrushinglyblindingly you melt into the startling backdrop of the citylights oh life passes you by so fast and the only solution
is to go faster

but he drags
you
back

to where you started and you're breathless but alive
why would he rather stay here, grounded, lifeless, still
you like to make him panic because when the terror ceases for that one second
he can lift his eyes to the citylitsky and hold his breath and count
the helicopter stars
just like you know he used to
do when he was little and

you want to reach over before the fear starts coursing
through his open veins like adrenaline through yours and
kiss him;
everything is screaming neon and you want to kiss him just so he'll shut up,

but you can't because your eyes are on that neon blur
and you're trying to focus on not getting caught
and your feet are occupied with the pedals and your hands with the
wheel,

and he's too tall for you
anyway,

watch, instead, the citylights
as they unravel into paintstrokes of chemical fluorescence
behind you,

watch them try to catch

up