Ghosts danced in the hot smear of Jet A breakaway thrust. The heat shimmer metal breath carried them right over the fence hugging the Ingham County line. Hard memories rode high on that blasted exhaust, too. The ones bleeding themselves uninvited back over the uneven tracks. Right the fuck into the broken heart fever of a Clinton County left howling.
Like they still had somewhere important to be.
Funny how those names don’t really mean a damn thing anymore.
Because fuck the itinerary.
Stories worth telling usually don’t have one, anyway.
So I faced those ghosts head on. And chased them all right the fuck off again—that is just what ramp 🦊s were born to do.
It’s admittedly a feral life. One spent kicking tin. And collecting typewriters sin. Because the depravity of some deranged overnights bleed stickier than others. Especially the lonely ones. The ones too often born in the cloying haze of another claustrophobic 517 summer heatwave.
But then, I was only ever in Michigan to be with her.
Because she said then that it was love. But I finally realized, a little too late, that it only ever felt like violence. And I could never find a peaceful resolution between those two extremes.
Back in that confusing time; back when every road still had a name that mattered. And every intersection belonged to somebody more deserving. Back when every empty parking lot carried the secrets of a story you swore you’d never forget.
But now, they are just empty coordinates. Meaningless places I passed through easily without once having ever asked permission. From anyone.
Just more useless pins jabbed into an anachronistic map.
And when I foolishly questioned the integrity of those punctures, that intuition only pissed her off even more. The same intuition that once made her wet. And first attracted her to me. Because it allowed me to pay attention to the places others had failed to ever notice.
But ultimately, I was blamed for that, too.
Such is the curse of a lover’s betrayal.
She didn’t think I would notice.
But I did.
I saw through every lie. Every mask. Every pretense.
Nothing was real.
Counterfeit everything.
Because we both played our little games. When maybe we should have been paying a little more attention.
At least I now know that when death finally comes for me, I fully expect it will call out my name in a voice different from hers. It will be one more tender in tone. Similar to another once whispered so softly, it was enough to actually break me.
It will sound comfortingly dark. Like the intimate warmth of a minor E chord vibrating. I will bathe unburdened in that echoing yearning; I will forever sing along unashamed in an honest voice.
And once I hear that siren of the last song calling, I will run towards it. Smiling. With arms open, like they always were, for anyone foolish enough to actually love me back.
I guess it’s true what they say.
Rock and roll can never die.
And neither will the story.
