i'm not saying it was your fault, although you could have done more...oh you're so naive, yet so...

where do i go now? :

several hours or
several months
i couldn't remember.
i couldn't
escape or
breathe.

i counted
fifty seven roads.
i turned
i swerved
i drove,
but all i ever saw
was you.

you
had stolen
the street signs.
they had been
replaced,
but we all
knew
they would never
look the same.

comes the morning when i can feel that there is nothing left to be concealed...

my sediment crusted feet were propped on the narrow landing where the glove compartment met the windshield. the scent of the frog infested river refused to leave the half damp strands of hair curling in the wind. blinking with the drowsiness of a night spent camping, i glanced at you-then out the window-then at you again. i felt like an overgrown toddler-unsure of my surroundings, but exerting every ounce of energy to understand them. i knew the red polish on my toes had been chipped off, that there was a briar scratch across my left calf, that my mascara had smeared into oblivion. i wanted to feel beautiful in a mirror image of you. mornings would never shine across hills with ease. painted cement lines would never slur with cherry chapstick. in the style of your hated cliches, i had changed-folded into a bag, waterlogged. the temperature was dropping its degrees daily and you were driving me home.