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our conversations are all in blue.
i try not to mind it,
like i try not to mind the hair falling out of my scalp.

you're just busy being unattached to me.

i make excuses for you as easy as i double text.
they flood my head like mantras,
but not the kind that make you feel calm or loved.
it's more like telling yourself you won't throw up after the twisty roads up the mountain.

but i want to see the view with you.

so i keep sending you blue paragraphs filled with 'sorry's and 'i love you's.
you send the same grey 'i love you, too's.
and we call it communication.

i'm the driver and the passenger
the carsick kid trying not to throw up and the toddler asking over and over if we're there yet.
but i want to see the view with you.
would it hurt to send a grey paragraph? or ask me,
in your best whine,
if we are at the top yet?
throw up in my lap. drive me crazy.

ask me for the aux cord and i'll give it to you.

i'm done listening to this album on repeat.
i want to hold your hand without worrying if your fingers are numb and you just don't want to hurt my feelings.
this car needs more you.
and i don't mean the you dressed in grey half messages that you probably rewrote three times.

i need the you that talked about faking our deaths together
like it was the only part of life worth living.
wearing that laugh you always say is too loud,
but really it sounds like music.
i like my music loud and angry.
and ****** at your parents for being expired versions of themselves, always expecting you to be organic.
i need that you like i need a vice.

because that's who i want to see the view with.
i miss you. not the you that texts me, 'i miss you, too.' i miss the you that calls me a crazyhead for texting you that at 1am <3

09.05.2021
Blackenedfigs Dec 2020
Take me back to a different hotel every night and living out of a suitcase. Getting comfortable in our naked bodies around each other; comparing breast size and stretch marks—examining ourselves like the men who’ve carelessly fondled us before for our likes and dislikes. Sharing a bottle of lukewarm tequila in the world’s smallest bathtub and then I sing you to sleep. Highway cars buzzing past and there’s only one road to get lost on, but we manage it every single time. Your car becomes a dressing room at gas stations where people stare with disapproving glares and worry for the safety of their wallets; because we don’t belong here but we laugh—still drunk from the early morning hours and just trying to find the next check-in spot for the night. There never is a real destination but home always seems too close and we both hate that part. It doesn’t feel right when it ends or when I have to crawl back into my own bed without a time frame to be out by in the morning—before the housekeeping maid comes banging on our door,
yet again.
Kathryn Apr 2020
---

A bag of clothes, a box of books, another smaller box of letters and photographs & an old guitar are sitting in the backseat.


It's 3am and she's driving through the Blue Ridge mountains. All the windows are down, warm summer air billows in and sends her hair dancing. 


She doesn't know where she's going, but the warmth calls to something in her blood so she heads South. 


She'll probably end up on a beach somewhere in a little East Coast town. Maybe she'll sell flowers and jam by the roadside or find a little bookstore that needs help, she'd wash floors all day if she had to and wouldn't think to complain. 


It all feels like freedom. 


The air smells like rosemary and thyme that grow wild along the roads. The stars are so bright she can hear them breathing. A jackalope dashes across her headlights & is gone before she has time to turn her head.


She parks in the back corner of a gas station somewhere in the Carolinas & stretches her legs out the window, takes a few sips of whiskey and reads a while before she falls asleep. Lightning bugs dance in a nearby field to the voices of cicadas. 


Somewhere a voice is screaming, glass is breaking, sirens pierce the stillness of a quiet street, but she doesn't hear it & she never will again. Even in sleep she is smiling.
Thank you for reading.
Ashlyn Rimsky Dec 2019
no idea where i am and
no idea where i am going
just a tank full of gas
and the patter of rain
just me and time and space
no plans, no destination
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
The irrefutable motto
Spiraling overhead
Like buzzards
Is your wife's voice
Reminding you instead
That the directions you failed
To ask for at the last filling station
Several hours ago
Have once again
Ruined a family vacation
lua Nov 2019
the road home wound and swirled like a coil
the music on the radio tuned out like white-noise
and the sun had set to a point where everything lit up in red
a crimson so deep
it stained the trees, the grass
the tall towering buildings, the calm suburban neighbourhoods
the cracked pavements, the dark alleyways
the glass shop windows, the exposed brick of an abandoned structure
the glossy sides of the cars that drove infront of us, the concrete we drove on
the faux leather seats, the metal of the adjustable headrest
the tips of my hair, the tips of my fingernails
my skin, and all of the things that sat with me in silence

i close my eyes

and i feel.
other title: crimson hour
William de klerk Sep 2019
Our beginning , like new life
was pure.

So far away are the days that like the horizon seemed filled with eternal promises to face
side by side.

First as friends,
then as frolicking fools
too blind to see the roads sharp fork
that would divide like a deep chasm.

Still, we rushed forward
on passions temporary fuel
hitting the first bump,
soon to be trapped in a cycle
of blissful agony,
like new life growing only to wilt
in the unceasing cold to come.

But, as a dead flower leaves a seed,
So did we leave scars,
that tells a tale to carry each of us
with the other as we move on.
Perhaps,
A lesson learned or a wound
to be examined on colder days,
that like the markers along
a journey
guides us going forward.

So as dents display the wisdom our once
fresh bodies did develope on our trip,

We learned to seek out bumps to avoid
and though we drive different roads
In opposite seasons,
peace floods me as
the passing road markers
down memory lane become
like the grave stone on that forking road
where I layed each wilted petal
of the flower on the dash
to rest along the road on that autumn trip.
Love like a fresh flower on the dash of ones first car, where freedom is found, wilts in the sun as we drive forward on our paths, someday we may pull over in a beautiful field and pick a new flower after the petals from our first love have completely fallen off and we are ready to lay then go rest in an unmarked grave
Juhlhaus Aug 2019
Maybe you find your center
On a couch beside a divided highway,
Where asphalt ribbons melt together
In the beautiful mess of the day's last fire,
Where light falls on upholstery
In a manufactured Southwest pattern,
Best suited to drier air but somehow
At home on a Wisconsin shoulder,
Watching the world go by
In metallic paint and autoglass reflections,
Moving too fast to catch all the names
Of almost-forgotten rivers crossed:
Rib River,
Rat River,
Jump River,
And any number of State Name Rivers.
Or maybe you find your center
On the other side of a plume of red granite dust,
Where the asphalt ends and the rivers
Are more than almost-forgotten signs
Beside a divided highway.
Inspired by an actual couch beside a divided highway.
Antonyme Aug 2019
If people started liking the
Journey

Better than the
Destination

Life would be a lot more enjoyable.
...
Artemis Jul 2019
the sunrise was more golden than i'd ever seen it,
almost like the world was waking up.

we sat for hours,
sometimes in silence
sometimes laughing.

it didn't matter what we did,
we were escaping just long enough to see how
wonderous life is

and that's all that mattered
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