Coming home to him tonight it requires unusual strength to flick on the turn signal, brake and gently veer right onto the downward slope of the offramp. Because what I really want is to stay on the freeway. Maintain speed. Just keep going.
Where? Just going.
And what is this thing that takes hold and sinks its claws in and pulls and pulls and pulls?
Each time, when it grabs me, I take the exit. Or make the turn. I end up at home, or at work, school, the post office... I don't let it win. Yet I imagine that it steals a piece, a spark; some fragment of the visceral, seething depths. That piece keeps going, and I can never get it back.
How long can this go on? How long before I'm gone and everywhere and nowhere? A hundred thousand flecks of life. A million tiny bits of fire. Traveling in all directions, out there on the open road.
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