on clear nights like these, i think will keep driving and never stop. that i will keep going until my tires burst and fail, until my engines die, until i'm broken down on a lonely stretch of freeway. and i will pull myself out of the car and walk the rest of the way. i don't know where i'm going or where i'll be, but i know that it is never far enough away.

and i can write love letters in weak fluorescent light, paper strewn across cracked formica tables in shitty diners across the country. i can slump over in dark green vinyl seats, shiny and worn with the imprints of a thousand tired travelers. i'll drink my coffee black and by 10,000 miles i won't even notice the chest pains. i will stay up night after night, smoking way too many turkish jades, writing stories about brake lights and cold mirrors.

and from new york to l.a., i will carry you with me every step of the way. i will always be back there, behind the italian restaurant, laughing in your arms while we waltz to muzak. i will always be caught in that thunderstorm downtown, when you laid me down against cold, wet rocks and kissed me as if you'd die without it. i will always be trapped in the passenger seat, screaming as yellow headlights wash across your face and the last words you ever said to me play on loop like the soundtrack of my heart slowly failing.

sometimes the only way to handle it is to romanticize it.