I've seen the same roads,
those that lead nowhere
or cut into an end here,
reaching the edge of a mountain,
or to the lip of the sea,
or fading off into dust
and growing darker into
grainy asphalt—
that somehow hurts.

The roads straighten and curve,
and stretch and narrow,
and bend and break,
and crack just as it is filled
in between the seems.
They intertwine,
and meet in the middle,
and lead off somewhere,
like the t-boning of a barelling car,
going 40 on a 25.

The saddest roads are always short,
yet seeming endless in a moment
of brief contact.
The same speed,
the same view, and the same
edge by the sea, passing like
two stray boats at night.
The loneliest roads are parallel;
equal in distance, that can never touch. Side by side in meeting,
and always apart when leaving.

The loneliest roads taper off,
and stare at emptiness.
Paralell roads never meet,
and will always stay the same.

The loneliest roads between us
are just a few feet apart—
always infinite miles away.