I guess open roads remind me of you because every time I merge onto a freeway or interstate the blood starts leaking through the bandages on my exit wounds again. And as the days continue to go by, the only thing I realize is how much I do not know. I don't know how to tell my mother to stop looking for anything other than a damp forrest floor in my eyes. I don't know how to stop screaming at the wind every time it whispers your name and I do not know how to release my grip on the back of the car you are trying to drive away from me. I don't know how to make my heart beat for something other than the flow of air in your lungs. I don't know how to try and look at the ocean and not see your eyes and I most certainly do not know how to think of you as anything other than a shooting star that I was too captivated by to even make a wish. I do not know how to make you think of my head on your chest when you smell earl grey tea in the late hours of the afternoon and I don't know how to fade the burn marks your leaving left. But I do know that my mother cries a lot now, and I'm hoping this road rash scars in a way that won't look like you walking away from me.