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Inter-state

The words you say, the windows break silently the lonely labors lost in the forest fires, you slipped and barbed wire broke your fall.  She was necromancing in the aisles, and everybody was hiding smiles of nothing pure but the finest proof that the test of truth is laughter.  And now she strains to conceal your arms still tied to the roof of her mouth; she lies so well to herself.  Witness to the birth of trust, and then her highest form of treason.  But that’s okay — just stay away from girls who look you in the eyes.  Don’t look her in the eyes.  Don’t give up on her — she’s never really gone. 

The floods that carved her ballet arch poison you with mystery and change your mind from black-and-white to green.  If you could fall asleep in the middle of the street (or some inter-state) you could illustrate the way you felt when you woke up, and she was gone save for the memory you wrapped up so tight, to block out any light.