Beauty is raindrops on my windshield collecting pigments from wet street lights... Projecting a palate of neon colors into a very bitter dreary night.
I let my eyes unfocus and blur at the sides... As I numbly follow familiar white road lines. Soon my face flushes and I tighten my grip... As I wonder what would happen if I let the steering wheel slip.
The last thing he said to me... Was that I was the reason why.
As soon as my palm opened... Our glitter became dust. Now everything that sparkles... I know can combust.