The way wind rushes past ears, and you inhale the sweet smell of exhaust fumes, your head sticking out the window of a beat up, gray van.
The way the smell is comforting now, it feels more like home than that house ever did. The way you love it, the feel of the metal walls around your arms.
The way the atmosphere is heavy and damp, the smell of musk, it was revolting at first, but now you’re used to it.
The way you drink too much coffee, and your hands shake around the steering wheel, peering over your shoulder.
The way you see two other bodies in the back of the car, huddled together, a tattered (but still warm) blanket wrapped around them both.
The way you see your drummer sitting next to you in the passenger seat, their head tilted to the side, resting on the window as they sleep.
The way your voice is so hoarse from singing, but who cares. The way your fingers feel like they’re (still) bleeding. The way you don’t even know why.
The way you doubt it was playing the guitar, but rather how you throw punches. The way you lost your temper, so soon, and couldn’t help it.
The way you snapped out the words ‘You’re head is shoved up so far up your own ass, how fucking dark is it up there?’
The way you felt blood flowing down your own nose, then bruises on your knuckles. The way you threw their guitar on the ground, cussing.
The way your bassists and drummer had to hold the two of you back, as you two yelled. The way you two finally got it together, so you all could play a few damn songs.
The way you spat out out the words a little too harsh, looking their way with a glare.
The way you felt energy rushing through your veins, how long it had been since you felt that angry, happy, fucked up, exhilarated.
The way platonic kisses end up on cheeks, but vicious scowls sear through backs as well.
The way you feel like you’re home.