The highway wore roses.
Two lanes wide beneath a sky
that was blue,
a sun that was unforgiving.

We were there
on the grass
outside the gas station,
the first thing we had seen in fourteen miles.

You didn’t say anything.
You just stood there,
all inadvertent grace
and unknowing impetuousness.

“Beauty is an emotion,” you said.
“It is not a characteristic; it is the quality of eliciting that emotion.
You know it is beautiful
by the way it makes you feel,”
you assured me.

We were back on the road smoking cigarettes
when I knew I didn’t want to love you.
We were back on the road,
And the highway wore roses.