We eat up road in leaps between nowhere towns,
counting the miles between us and anywhere,
always too many and never enough
fleeting kisses on stretches of narrow and straight
somewhere horizons in every direction
we think too much as it is
West, you say. West until there’s no more north.
But I can count the distance between us and the sun
and we can make it, I swear.
In the roadside motels we haven’t grown into;
clean, highly rated with breakfast at an additional charge.
We make believe at rent payers and money makers,
and wonder at the people who fucked
and the people who died
and the people who bled
and the people who cried
in the pre-loved beds we’re calling refuge.
Your skin is electric,
and we’re just a statistic, I guess.
We die a hundred deaths in sheets
we wouldn’t have to wash
and tear gashes into one another’s sides
to let in the sun, you see,
to feel more than yesterday, you see.
I remember your hands on my neck
and all the scars we left each other
to be kissed away in the morning
and ripripripped open later that day
I hurt. Do you?
Two beggars in bed, begging for more
than we deserve or the other can give.
Stay – but where is my dignity?
Where, my self-respect?
Shake the magic eight ball again and plead:
Who am I even?
How dare you break my faith?
Stay. I beg.
I’m too tired to drive right now, but the horizon looms behind us; slowly catching up.
Drive; in any direction I don’t care
drive and touch my thigh sometimes
so I don’t forget that you are there
and your shadow falls softly against me
and I need the flood.
The middle of nowhere isn’t far enough
you pressed against me isn’t near enough
and the distance to the sun is more than
anyone could have anticipated
and there’s a highway leading back
and were we even anywhere, anyway?
But we are all so far away.