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Restu Taurina May 28
i was a long drive
and a short trip
in your so-called way home
where you ended up leaving
because you hated being behind the wheel
Sunny May 4
A cross-country trip that should
Take about five days at most.
Maybe more.
And during that time, we won't get to talk.

I'll miss you
and my heart aches just thinking about it.
But I know that this is something
you have to do.

I'll be waiting for you.
I hope you'll be safe.
And I know that you'll
miss me too.
I love you.
Lilli Sutton Apr 4

Sometimes I think I can get through anything.
Wrong again – except, I made it to the city
with my patience still intact. I liked the early morning
best, deer in the wheat and crows in the corn.
Midday the sky turned blue and warm wind
rolled over the Ohio hills,
but I was too sick in the backseat to notice.
No matter. Indiana gas station as the clouds
start to roll in. Here the land is flat
and brown and empty. The sky
comes down to touch the earth and everything
goes gray. Finally I’m behind the wheel
and I wish it had been like this the whole way.
I can go fast on the highway and it feels
like traveling back in time, cruising in reverse
the way we came back from Utah years ago.
When the heavens open I’m not scared –
I’ve met god before, just like this – Midwest
melody of rain against the pavement,
or just the song of shutting eyes.

2.
But I didn’t sleep last night. I was too busy
thinking about all the songs I’ve forgotten.
When you’re old, music is supposed to help
you meet yourself again for the first time.
I wish that could happen now – so I pick songs
that matter. Missouri is warm and windy
and it takes all day before I can escape. The arch,
the Mississippi – portrait of a city
that I know must be so **** on the inside.
Or maybe I like it here. I read O’Hara
in the hotel room alone – I don’t have words
to fill a city that way. The din of beautiful comfort
resonates within this bubble – I stay back,
linger by myself.

3.
What a long day – it’s only 10 in the morning
when Katharine convinces me to fly back.
So I picked out all those songs for nothing –
oh well. It’s not the first time
I’ve done something in vain. Puddles standing
on the sidewalks – it doesn’t matter
if my shoes stay dry. I am guilty
of the default answer – I don’t really want
to hear the question, I just want my voice
to be the most important sound in the room.
At the same time, I don’t like to be the center
of attention – I dissolve to the edges,
wait until I can slip through the cracks unnoticed.
Later we bond about Thursday’s drive –
how we were both afraid, but didn’t want to say it.
I can’t keep my eyes open on the plane,
but I also can’t sleep. Dusk comes faster
than it’s supposed to – we miss an hour.
On the tarmac in Virginia the wind is dry and hot –
it’s too warm for March, and I don’t know what
to make of it. I wait on a bench for my friends
and beside me, a woman cries, but I don’t say anything.
I’m always at a loss for words around strangers.
On the hour ride home we try to figure it out –
what we’re each saying in our coded conversations.
All weekend I heard words, but never the right ones –
for all the intricacies of human language,
it’s insurmountably difficult to tell you how I feel.

4.
So I’m not in St. Louis anymore –
but for the sake of consistency, let’s pretend.
I could have ridden back with the twins today,
flat farms giving way to the rolling hills of the east again.
Maybe that’s why today feels like an undeveloped dream –
I only have one side of what should be a full circle.
At the farmers’ market we eat jams and chocolate,
and Michelle pets every dog. The air is cold and sweet –
I notice the hint of green around the edges of the trees,
the bright yellow of forsythia and the crocuses.
We’ve arrived at the in-between: soon, I won’t remember
winter, but I have a feeling that what has followed me
the last few months might stick around.
03.31.19.
evita Mar 28
all the backroads,
and the picturesque mountains,
and the lush trees
blessed by the song of the river—
they mean nothing

compared to you.
shimmering tender blue
under smooth black canvas
dotted with constellations.

throw away the jazz records,
pack a suitcase to nowhere
and everywhere.

come sit with me
as we navigate uncertainties.
for don.
for naming the unnameable.
Baylee Kaye Jan 21
every part of me, craves your company.
grab your coat, turn off your phone, let’s go.
my hand in your hand,
what more could we need?
come on now, baby, come get lost with me.
d.c.
David Adamson Jan 21
Last year's version of the mind-body problem:
my mind gives orders that my body won’t obey.
It’s a problem.

The body’s warranty has expired and
spare parts are scarce.  Plastic tubes
To help me drain have become part of my day.
So there’s still a will.  But sometimes no way.

I am now my sister’s age when she died.  
And some nights
as I lie down in darkness
there’s a moment of wondering
could this be the night
of the Great Reckoning
when everything I’ve said and done
goes mute and I am gone.

And crawling over me like a slow stain
is dread that everything important in life
has already happened. I remember some days  
less than my dreams.

But friend, not this tone!
Let us write a history of now.
Body and soul, stand up and shout
“Baseball road trip!”

Car:  check.  Best friend:  check.  Nostalgia for a simpler
time.  We can fake that one.
The red zigzags on our map turn into places:
Six ballparks in a week.
Detroit haze, gasping Chicago wind,
Milwaukee self-serve micro brew
Cincinnati chili and watering eyes,
Cleveland’s defiant self-love,
Pittsburgh’s Primanti brothers monstrosity sandwich—
Burger, coleslaw, and fries on toast.

The American dream tastes like fast food,
But the mystery lives between the lines.
Thwack of fastball into catcher’s glove,
Whock! of line drive into the gap,
Ball rolling free across the green
While the runner speeds for home.
Home.

Let’s keep going, friend.
There’s another bridge up ahead and
a ballpark’s lights shining somewhere in the dusk
of the upper Midwest and the open road
unrolls toward the setting sun.
Emily Jul 2018
Planned a long road trip
In the name of friendship
Seven hundred miles that day
Home and bed five miles away

Midnight sky with fireworks high
Red “H” on engine gauge much closer by
The sight was quite a fright
No longer feeling such delight

Pulling to the side
My time to bide
Until a tow appears
To relieve my fears

Mosquitos delight
They win the fight
On the interstate highway
Above their lakeside byway

Vibrations move the car
While passing trucks go far
E.T.A. at 1 am
Police set flares at 2 am

2:20 rolled around
At last the car was found
Speedy hookup
Not another hiccup

Left car at garage
Free ride home removed my rage
Doubled the driver’s tip
Reduced the bother to a blip

3am can go to bed
Yet so wired in my head
It takes an hour to mellow out
In four more, the sun from bed will rout

Was it worth it in the end?
Any day, I’d do it for my friend.
Marius Banik Jun 2018
16
No love
No hope
No dream
Daddys car
Lethal speeds
Touch me
Where? Away
Alcohol is expensive
Parents agressive
Anywhere but here
Drive
Drive
I hate my friends
Hate you too
So stay quiet
And love me
Only thing killing us
Is death
blue May 2018
i.
with every bump in the road,
my breath hitches
water is ushered off the window
where droplets play a game of tag
everyone is slowly nodding off
to the rhythm of a ukulele
the rain pours down
as I play inertia's puppet
the window frames the polaroid photo
my eyes, a pair of untrustworthy narrators
tell a tale of a road trip, an adventure waiting to bloom

ii.
endless sky above
meets earth below
the stars
stretching beyond comprehension
not a true silent night
or the brightest lights
juxtaposed against black
where constellations are nullified
and human constructs fade
eyes adjust to it all
comprehending the unknown
realising humanity's significance
in our collective insignificance
in the observable universe

iii.
conversations waltz around
each other to the guitar
and the flames
crackle away in the midst
of everyone
smoke filling the crisp air
the stars burning
terribly bright against
soft dark tones of the sky
these ashes may drift and
fall but our memories
will never crumble away
Seth Honda Apr 2018
The fastest way to get to heaven, is to bring it with you. These are the words that flood my mind as I glance over at the little piece of heaven sitting in my passenger seat, brown hair flapping in the wind, her hands in the sky, a bright glimmer of happiness in her chocolate brown eyes. We fly down the coast and I watch my worries fly out of the open convertible top, our stresses disappear with the wind, our happiness getting caught in our teeth. I can hear our happiness bubbling and screaming with each of our laughs. So we laughed, the deep kind of laugh, the laugh that starts in your toes and travels all the way up through your stomach to your throat up to your nose and it makes your head shake. It is the kind of laugh that I live for, your laugh. Heaven is not a place, or a time. It is wherever you are, and whatever minute I spend with you. Heaven is a place that I go every time I look into your eyes, every time I hear your laugh, see your smile, smell your perfume in the air. You are my little piece of heaven. Winding down the coast of whatever state we are in, in whatever car we rented, during whatever season it was, none of that mattered, because winding down the coast with you is perfection. It is noticing the tiny flecks of gold in the corner of my eye as your hair catches the sun. It is feeling the wind whipping through our clothes and hearing your giggling whip through my eardrums leaving me giddy. As we drive, I feel something fall atop my nose, then below my eye, then on my fingertip, little droplets of rain. I look up at the nearly cloudless sky and wonder. Wonder how a beautiful day could yield such conflicting weather. I look down a little and wonder how a beautiful girl could yield such conflicting emotions. The rain falls harder, rain drops whipping against our faces like bugs on a windshield, I pull our car over. I step out into the pouring rain and smile. I smile the kind of smile that starts in your throat, the kind that rises from your throat and makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The kind of smile that is contagious. On earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it. And I know as the droplets of rain trickle off of my head, I have one of those pieces in my passenger seat. I dance around to your door, droplets of rain bouncing off of my head and swing you out. Your hands close on mine and I know my piece of heaven is holding me. Holding me as rain engulfs us, drenching us from head to toe. Dripping wet, we fly down the coast of whatever state we’re in and wind whips through our drenched shirts and shorts. Yet, I am warm for I have a little bit of sunshine in my passenger seat. A little bit of pure joy, thawed out happiness, raw love, in my passenger seat. Now I sit next to you, in some car, some place, somewhere, sometime, but those things do not matter because it’s not just someone, its you. The fastest way to get to heaven, is to bring it with you. And I definitely have.
April 29, 2018 || 12:59 AM
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