Pandora

There were suspenders on his eyebrows when he dared to look at where he was. Highways in his frown when he attempted to reason how long he'd stay. I'd get high on the exhaust while he idled in the damp garage between my thighs.

After a little while those wheels would start to spin in place and I knew he'd be leaving soon. The lurch of his momentum spitting pieces of his path back in my face.

I'd lay there afterward. Fingering the skid marks. Gathering the fumes. Sorting them into piles. Day One. Day Two. Etcetera. Stacks and stacks of the same question. The answer only to be found in another pill.

The invisible pictures people draw under our skin. A deluge of ink drowns the empty in its throb. Still the needles they use to get inside it create more holes than they fill.

Pandora, I asked, Will you look inside my box again?

And she did.