i miss the sound of your voice.
the rain against my window almost suffices for tonight--
i'm a little drunk but i count the miles between us like a mantra;
take i-20e to us 190. take exit 19. for 506 miles, don't look back.
we are directions on a map with a destination to each other.

i'm calling because sometimes i forget what mile i'm on.

when i'm done with miles, i start counting days--
65 days until i see you next, 23 days since i've seen you last,
and on the 27th day, you told me you loved me.
if love was a garden of sunflowers on a dallas spring morning,
if love was a crawfish boil on a new orleans summer night,
then i'd spend every minute falling in love with you.

i never run out of things to say but my gas is running on empty,
and i've still got 3 more hours to go because
i accidentally missed you so much that my foot stepped on the pedal
and instead of turning left, i turned right since going home
meant going straight to you. i only meant to grab lunch,
but i had to have you by supper.

the last thing i wanted to tell you before i tell you what i really need
to tell you is that i'm not afraid anymore; no longer afraid of
unlocking this heart and throwing it miles and miles away with nothing
but a good pair of pants and a folded up address in its pockets.

the address is yours, so open up. i'm here.