I won’t drive until I’m crazy;
that’s what I tell myself.
I won’t stand on the roadside
Staring at the moon.
Instead, I long for
a bed of roses in summertime;
might my spirit
finally rest then.
Scratching at the walls of this town,
the years passing like it’s a prison
until I’m too tired
to fight anymore.
What I’d give to drive
and never return
the way I watched you do
many years ago
I hung around awaiting
the day I would too,
but the whiskey runs dry,
dreams dissipate
in wisps of smoke outside
another neon light barroom.
We used to talk about
what you mean to me
but tonight, it’s a secret love
dead and gone.
Like wildflowers
growing through a skeleton
long forgotten.
I lost my way
staying in one place,
scratching at walls, at dirt,
anything that feels
destructive to this restlessness
eating away at my bones.
Maybe that’s how petals
came to caress the rib cage
and skull of another.
Who are you and were you
terrified of dying here too?
So, I drive until I am crazy
only to return to
scratching at these walls,
but the whiskey goes dry
and I
want to dissipate into smoke
somewhere as far away
as that ghost of me.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
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