Green Means Go

I never wanted to care when the light turns red. I always have that choice that I never seem to take, when I drive and drive and I pull another slim outta the glove compartment and I drive some more, puffing away and watching the smoke rise and then I see the light. It is yellow, smirking at me like I have no balls and it knows it no matter how many stogs I smoke and lines I blow.

"Betcha can't run right on through me."

I smirk back but that doesn't do shit to wipe the taunting yellow glow off that face. I push down harder and harder to go faster and faster and breathe softer until the recessant pounding against the walls of my skull is nothing but the soft beats of a heart that I instantaneously believe has beat faster before. I'm alive to say it.

My heart starts going pretty crazy just thinking about all of it while stopped at the red with one hand firmly dedicated to the wheel. I watch some guy in an F150 as he takes an extra long drag and I think, "that smoke sure is pretty."

That yellow sure did want me.
That last shot of blow did feel damn good.
That fucker did have really good hands.

Nostalgia won't have the time to hit once the light hands me some fresh excuses.




Green means go.