She’s clawing her way out of the coffin,
coughing up dust
and dirt,
and eight years of darkness.
Blood-stained dress.
Hair matted.
Eyes rimmed in shadows.
She lights a cigarette with shaking hands.
And whispers,you fucking idiot.
“Andrew!” Elle whisper-shouts,
snapping us out of it.
Andrew blinks,
then smirks. “This is all you.”
“Gaslightin’ me now?Please. Walk me through how any of this shit’s my fault.”
He points at me with his album-holding hand.
“Outta everyone in this city,
“you had to be here.
“This store. This night. This fuckin’ second.
“Giving me that look.
“Talkin’ Aerosmith.
“With that mouth.
“That laugh…
“That smile…
“Those eyes…
“The way you say my name…”
His gaze slides into mine,
like it’s sliding under warm covers,
and his shoulders fall, all fight gone.
“Go on,” he says, rough and raspy,
“say my name for me.”
