2:TheEarth:MemoriesAreJustSlowlyDyingInsects

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riduckulous

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I tried to make myself believe that it was you
But no matter what I couldn't seem to allow myself to
Believe that you had a single bad bone in your body

I am a bug on the windshield
That was once passed by and is now dead
And forgotten, as it is wiped away into the wind
Where there will be no thought or memory
Or sadness about it

And in the wind
At sixty-five miles an hour
The bug will dance
The bug will twist
Like some tempestuous hurricane of bug guts and bug shit
And it will land into a speck on the road
Camouflaged in the tacky asphalt
Baking under the sun
The bug will bake and the bug will dissolve
Until even the guts are gone
Instead replaced with a black paste
Of slightly-warm bug smoothie

And one day a car's tires will drive over the paste
And pick it up and drive
And it will fade into the lint of the tread
With a cunning degree of secrecy and death of a memory

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