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

a handgun.

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.