We call this teen angst.

Asphalt on bare feet and night air on bare skin,
we are silent and his car is in neutral and we
are slowly and quietly entering the old world.
I am too young to be drinking, to be smoking,
to be driving, but the steering wheel is cool
beneath my fingers and she trusts me, she
loves me. "Don't crash my car," he says and
laughs. We are all cross-eyed and giddy, filled
with vodka and cigarette smoke and this is a
bad idea, but I don't say so. Lately, bad ideas
are all that can keep us from rotting inside.
The tires fall away and we are flying, I swear,
we are sailing as the night swirls by
in shades of indigo and green.

He is eighteen and my new best friend, buying
us cigarettes and lending us cars. She and I,
we just want to feel alive, and killing ourselves
seems to be the best way to do it. He's telling
me some story that I'll never remember, and
she's quietly smoking through a window in the
back, and we are soaring back through the rift
in the universe to a silent house. We are at peace
here, we are at rest.

The grass is still damp, and the house is still dark,
and the car is still heavy as we roll it back to its
spot on the lawn. It's four in the morning but the
fire's burning gold and we're too young to sleep.
His eyes are on the flames, and hers are on the
stars, and suddenly, I love her more than I ever had.
She watches stars shoot and planets collide and
I watch her, the darkness inking her hair as her
fingertips burn. "We'll remember this," she says
as we fall asleep together, the sun rising in the
distance. With smoke clinging to our clothes, and
the taste of stars on our tongues, I know in years
I will learn to regret this, but tonight
we're on top of the world, we are truly alive.