I am sure.
I am driving west.
The sun is bright.
My eyes more sensitive to this now.
My face tingles.
My right under eyelid quivers but there is no tear.
Why am I doing this?
I am gripping the wheel too hard.
I have forgotten the lines already.
I am most assuredly late.
A bottle of hot water rolls around on the floorboard.
My lips are tingling.
My face is hot.
My tongue sizzles like a gentler form of pop rocks.
Why did I say yes?
Sliding off the side of my face, is my face.
Salvador Dali appears in the passenger seat and cups his hand under my chin.
Shaved and young,
I am embarrassed because I wish it were Adrian Brody instead.
His mother appears in the back seat.
Her mouth is open and laughing.
"How did I miss that? 'Who the F I is?'" she squeals, "Who the F I is!"
We celebrate the deciphering of a line from a pop song.
My face is in his hands now, my eyeball a yolk.
Amused.
Amuse.
A MUSE.
Mama Dali puts her hand on my back.
My skin cools underneath her touch.
My body aches in a good way.
"Isn't that what you always wanted to be?" she asks.
She likes me. I can tell.
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