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you hit the gravel. again

and again.

ten at two. count down to

your hands at the wheel. your breath

steaming up the windows. your laces tied,

your bags packed, your ticket in your pocket,

bus change fiddling at the stop. a guitar 

on your back where your bones leave

oh sweetheart there’s a last chance

power drive on the highway tonight

broken heroes chroming neon streams

drifters-people who are lost, whose skin breathe road, whose legs are shifty and restless who pick up hitchhikers without reserve and make one-night-diner friends and tell ghost stories around the fire and disappear as easily-they can’t be lost forever.

we gotta get out while we’re young

baby we were born to run

till then we’ll walk in the sun

Every journey stops. Every person has to be still at some point and the highways they’ve traversed, the roads taken, they can’t be taken back (see: history) and they’ll come back to haunt you. 





play that song till the radio statics

(strange but familiar)

press that pedal,

run that red light, breathe in those

mid-road stars. love gas stations,

dream in exhaust smoke.

hard time whisky leaving 

a sour aftertaste in your mouth.

repair those televisions,

pick up strangers, think of me.

breaking into museums and

mine shafts, we're wild and free

eyes headlights fields

For those people-running always seems so easy when they do it but it consumes you to the point where you can’t discern which is what: you or the moving. The progression of direction. And when it finally becomes utterly inevitable that you have to stop, what do you have left? You can’t keep running forever. the gravel hits 


and you stop. 

the roads want their stories back.

what you spent in gas they want

paid in blood. sweetheart 

away is not a destination.

at some point all roads just

lead you somewhere else 

you don’t wish to go.