Wanting to remember
the last song in my mind, while
the miles turned kilometers
rolled on by,
what is the point
with measuring distance
when I never seem to get
to the last rest stop in my memory?
Face pressed to the glass,
the images
the trees bend and break
while their shapes elongate
along the sides of my sight,
the radio blares in the background,
in which language, being hard to say,
as long as the melody follows the words
which follow the melody again,
cracking the window
just a bit of distance
from top to bottom,
allowing the rush of air, echoing
in and through that place where,
my memory stopped and rested a bit
not wanting to continue the journey
not wanting to lose track of where I’d been
not wanting to lose sight of where I was going,
The glass is cold
and fogs up as my breath, appears
showing me that I am alive, still
until this distance is finished
until this amount of time has moved me along
until this breath, in and out
heart beating still, mind aware and active

Just driving
the title escapes me
the name, for want of something better
this stretch of life

This stretch of the road…