(no subject)
One year, four months and two days later, I still can't drive through Paynes Prairie without a heavy heart. Last night was no exception. Suffocating in stale remorse, I wanted to roll down the window and let my hair fly wild as I sped 86 miles an hour through the burnt sienna savanna. Lost in some indistinct coalescence of memory strung together with classic rock and boba tea, I longed to slice through the slow lane, slam on the brakes and barely miss the splintering fence posts as I stopped short, choking back empty hormone tears as I stumbled from the leather seat and clung to the sickly-fresh smell of the prairie marsh that was peridot green the day I left. Closure is a pretty pleasure, but I am a coward. Keenly aware of exactly what I've gained from what I've lost, I kept my eyes on the dotted yellow line and willed myself not to crank up the radio like a jilted high school girl.