on the road.
i’m driving, my hand is on your thigh.
listening to some obscure indie pop
you hate, but put up with, because
that’s certainly not a fight worth having.
the rolling countryside of eastern oregon
rises and falls, dotted with sagebrush and
oblique towns made up of remnants of
fickle ideologies in saggy skin and hats.
i love you. like the sea loves the shimmering
sunrise. like the diamond loves compression.
like the wine grape loves the struggle. like
melancholy loves a good aged scotch and
at a gas station we wait as someone pumps
our gas for us. (welcome to oregon.)
you take my hand in yours and thread
your fingers through mine, and smile.
where are we going? — a question i know
the answer to, all these years later, lodged
in a glass bauble in my throat. where are we
going. where have we been. where where where.
in the hotel we fuck like the old days, play
rock-paper-scissors for who sleeps on the
wet spot. i win, best three out of five, but i
relinquish my victory, because i love you.
like the stars love burning.