A tablespoon of sticky memories and a dozen burned roses:
Our behavior reeks of exploded airbags and spent fire extinguishers
And alcohol-infused shadows.
But come on, man, like what? Like we're always gonna be young enough to scream at stars and howl at the sun? Even eternity grows tired, and late-night laughter eventually turns to early-evening snoring; tales of adventure too soon change to complaints about the weather, or of aches, or of how things used to be.
Wear your dark shades like medals, you rowdy little fucker, your bloodshot eyes are battle wounds from a hard-fought victory. Self destruction is self liberation, anyone who would argue has never lived on the right side of the night.
Rock and roll, Rock 'n Rollas, because you deserve it. You are the failed science experiments of a society that never wanted to succeed, never wanted you to succeed. You're the awkward smiles and the uncomfortable silence and the hate so deep and familiar that it's the most polite thing in the room.
Stapled bra straps and torn knees and cigarette laughter, a million and a half of those white road stripes passing by in the darkness, strips of the present passing by without recognition or regret.
Cities on the horizon, speckled white and red and orange against a sky of ink, we measure our success in emptied coffee cups and filled moments and successful missions at lonely rest stops. We find the answers in laughter so intense that it hurts, tears so pure that they'll burn your skin, and whispers so secret they come out as war cries.
The end will be here one day, the great white null, and the only thing we can hope is that we'll impress it when it arrives. You kiss your favorite tattoo and I'll tip my hat, and we'll tell our stories to Death, and I hope the last thing you see is my nonchalant wink to you, and I hope the last thing you hear is the rumbled infinity exclaiming, "You gotta be shitting me!"