It has come down to mechanics: Pump and tire. We fuck. You pump. I fill up. You are far from full but at least you are pump and foot pedal where I am empty, tread upon, I am baggy and slack. Oxidized around the rim. Who hasn’t been left in the rain? Turn the wheel. Motion is a comfort; I inflate, I plump with air. A YES song rises from a radio. Cars idle at traffic lights. In summer windows stay open.
Listen: we advertise a squeaky wheeze. I hold my breath, bite my lip, I smother my face into a pillow for your fuck but darling – I am expanding. Soon there won’t be room. You don’t notice; you keep pumping until maybe I will explode. I will splatter like a stroller wheel shot, leaving messy black strips, bits to sift through, a fist to repair. Or maybe my mouth is a nub, and in the place of your pump someday I will simply tie off, I will float away.