You called me up at 2 that night. Asked if I wanted to go on a drive with you. "Where to?" I asked and you told me any place except here. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Your veins popped out as you held on to your steering wheel like a tether to stop you from floating away. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ People looked so different in silhouettes and street lights. And I saw how different you looked in them. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Your fingers held on to the steering wheel but they still shook. Your eyes remained glued to the road like any minute it would reach the end and you would drive off it. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I think with your sharp jawline I forgot the vulnerability of masculinity. You see, we've always known vulnerability as this fragile thing, which can break in the tiniest of hands. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I forgot that vulnerability for you was chapped. And gruff and rough. Like fingers running. On woods and branches, of trees and leaves crushed under new sneakers that were meant to run and kick. Gather dirt more than dust. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I think you let go of the steering wheel that night. Because your hands were a subtle green mixed with angry red. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I think we both drove off the edge that night.