it’s friday night, the day after i turned 40, and i’ve been on the road for eight hours. they say it’s for lovers, but all i can think is this state goes on forever. as i turn from a spur route onto 127 west, two things happen in quick succession: up ahead, i spot the first sign announcing where you are; it means i’m getting closer. seconds later, familiar chords come through the speakers, g / d / bm / g. i smile to myself, because i can’t help but believe it’s a message from you. you once asked a paramour hopeful to sing this song to you and he hesitated, wondering if you’re a devil worshiper, weighing what’s worse: that, or what you actually are. when i found out you like the boys as much as i do, i thought it appropriate, a little too on the nose even. satanist, anarchist, nihilist? or maybe you’re just a narcissist. but i flew across an ocean and i drove across eleven state lines to see you, so we both know it makes no difference to me. “how do you know a meteor is not going to crash into earth tomorrow?” i’d mortgage my soul, sleep in a car, treat myself to self-belief. hell, i’d even sing this to you if you asked me to.
Natalye Childress (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, translator, and sad punk. She has an MA in creative writing, and her first book, The Aftermath of Forever, was published by Microcosm Publishing. Find her on Twitter @deutschbitte, Instagram @natalyereads, or https://www.natalye.com.
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