Splintered

I looked up toward the shifting clouds
and I noticed it had grown darker.
You looked at me as your cigarette smoke
swirled around your head,
and I remember your eyes:
big, brown, dishonest.
Our steps quickened as tiny
droplets sprinkled the pavement,
appearing almost out of nowhere.
I remember our reflections
in the cars: distorted and confusing,
one after another.
Our silence thickened the air
and suffocated my pores.
You ran ahead to unlock the doors
and turned back to smile at me,
but I grew fixated
my Marlboro, and the thin
smoke it released
once the flame caught hold.
I slid into the passenger seat,
lonely on leather
and suddenly feel too young again
and stripped of my flesh.
Though it was raining, my body
was deeply penetrated by evening warmth
and your thundering atmosphere still hovered in mine,
splintering my body into millions
of slices and shards, and I remember
counting the droplets
of rain covering the windshield:
they were like pock marks.
I remember you looked at me
like I was speaking in tongue
like I had lost my mind completely.
You bore holes
right through my brain
and you told me I’ve got it all wrong:
and I remember imagining you
grabbing hold of my thumping,
anxious heart,
and ripping it right through my clenched teeth,
and you held it too tightly
until it burst,
spattering across my chest
and face.
I shook the image from my head, and we pulled
out of the parking lot.
You put your hand
on my thigh and smiled,
but I turned away.