Still small words.

>So many drives from the airport.
returning highways like the breaking of bones
I didn’t know I had.

Wind blew across the asphalt and I
felt my chest squeeze
my heart out onto the yellow lines
separating me from you.

I flicked my cigarette ash
onto the pavement
I pretended that
things could have been

that you would have known
what I was trying to say all along.

We were never
Your stirring in the middle of the night
my bad dreams
our lack of breathing.

Photos and letters
bad food and worse poetry.
Highways and dirt roads
stitching our histories into the periphery

windows opened to the rain,
hands squeezed my knee
when things went by too fast
when I forgot to stop.

The loneliest drive
only comforted by not knowing.
I didn’t use the breaks at all,
only wished I could
downshift into something permanent.


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