it’s four thirty in the morning and
the guardrails on the side of the road
are asking me, heads or tails;
heads, they win, tails, i lose.

the windows are down and
the cd player is on the lowest setting,
and i can’t remember what’s playing. the
rain stopped ten minutes before, and
there are puddles of black water
on the highway, and i hit every one
to see if, for a few seconds, i'll fly.

you used to say, em,
please wear your seatbelt,
and i (though i had every intention of
fastening it eventually)
would respond with laughter and
the defiant, half-believed claim that
i was invincible. you never laughed,
only said, i could never forgive myself if
i crashed and you got hurt or killed,
and i could have saved you by
telling you to put on your seatbelt.

and i always gave in,
not to your logic,
but to the pleading in your eyes.

now you're gone, and
i haven't worn my seatbelt since.

the guardrails keep asking,
heads or tails,
and i have to take my hands off the wheel
to flip the coin.