Teach Me the Knife

 

Teach Me the Knife
You said the steel was singing
on the shoulder of that two-lane road,
hands black with summer grease,
mind burning brighter than the chrome. Every bolt whispered a secret,
every rattle carried a name.
You kept asking the same question:
what broke first —
the engine or the flame between us?Teach me the knife and the question.
Show me how to split the world open,
tell me what’s only a name
and what still breathes.
Draw the line where repair turns to ruin —
point to the exact inch it begins.
Teach me the knife and the question,
cut me back down to the live spark.You traced ghosts across the atlas,
finger trembling over faded lines,
said you’d lost yourself somewhere
between yesterday and the next sign.
Chasing some half-remembered lecture
through rows of empty folding chairs,
while I watched your reflection
slowly erase itself from your stare.