You clenched my wrists like a post-dramatic experience. Every scene you depicted with those eyes reflected a bigger picture in my senses; with sonorous laughter you beguiled my lips into the shape of your choker. You insisted on driving every Tuesday evening, even when I imposed my backseats having more leg room. When you’re driving, I’m mentally falling in the deep-end, with perfect form. With one hand invigorating percussion taps, your hand grazing my leg like it should feel safe here, and my other hand independently pulsing an undercurrent of impressionistic tendencies with an imaginary brush; the drive devours our void, and the silence of our sound souls, with a timbre that rattles tendons, the beloved sun-drips into your pupils and yet again the reflection of your vision, portraying the frame that I’ll be determined to die for.