There is no one in this bed anymore.
We’ve woken, crawled out, leaving
behind an empty, hollow hole, and this place
is not like we remember.
The frosted grass crunches underfoot,
a great barn rots in the fields. Headlights
only ever in the distance, on faraway highways,
a neon-lit monstrosity our tombstone,
and we wonder
whether that tinge on the air is rust
We don’t know why we’ve woken,
only that we have no use for this grave
or for each other,
We need time apart, after being entwined for
You shot me,
don’t you remember? And I you.
And then we fell together.
Our loot lies in the hole with us, important
The lights pass over us,
but they cannot see us.
Were we ever really there?
THE EMPTY GRAVE BEHIND AN I-71 GAS STATION
Author Bio: T.T. Madden is a nonbinary, mixed-race writer from Baltimore for whom Halloween is a year-long holiday. Their work has been published by Bag of Bones Press, Alternating Current, and Lamplight Magazine, among others. They currently work as a showrunner for Hunt A Killer, and have additional episodes of Nighty Night with Rabia Chaudry podcast forthcoming. They can be found on Twitter @ttmaddenwrites, and refer to that carbonated beverage as "soda."