And then the letting go
I know, I know. These titles were yours, like the roads. Bitterly remind yourself that you are more authentic, and give me a fucking break.
Her old number will be gone tomorrow when the phone shuts off. I'm sure on desperate nights I will call around and try to retrieve a new one; part of me hopes I won't find it. I deserve time in the dark, to think about the way my actions effect other people. I deserve to be miserable for a while.
My trip to DC fell through; I almost cried in Kinko's. This summer has been stale. My goings-on would have been more than satisfying a year or two ago, but it's all getting so boring. This may have been my last summer in Kentucky for a long time, and I only bought two tanks of gas. I've burned the old important roads- the Bluegrass Parkway to Paducah, 34 to Danville, I-64 straight through Huntington. I can organize my years by those drives, by the landmarks and porchlights. This summer, almost by accident, I stayed within the same 8 block radius. And as August drags in the eminent deadline, the drunk lover in me has begun to miss those roads deep in my chest.
I'm afriad to stop writing; I don't want to be alone in my head tonight. I don't want to make the same heartbroken phone calls. I keep clicking around this thing in patterns like the endless hurried games of minesweeper I play at work. Anything to keep my eyes off the clock, I guess.
Her old number will be gone tomorrow when the phone shuts off. I'm sure on desperate nights I will call around and try to retrieve a new one; part of me hopes I won't find it. I deserve time in the dark, to think about the way my actions effect other people. I deserve to be miserable for a while.
My trip to DC fell through; I almost cried in Kinko's. This summer has been stale. My goings-on would have been more than satisfying a year or two ago, but it's all getting so boring. This may have been my last summer in Kentucky for a long time, and I only bought two tanks of gas. I've burned the old important roads- the Bluegrass Parkway to Paducah, 34 to Danville, I-64 straight through Huntington. I can organize my years by those drives, by the landmarks and porchlights. This summer, almost by accident, I stayed within the same 8 block radius. And as August drags in the eminent deadline, the drunk lover in me has begun to miss those roads deep in my chest.
I'm afriad to stop writing; I don't want to be alone in my head tonight. I don't want to make the same heartbroken phone calls. I keep clicking around this thing in patterns like the endless hurried games of minesweeper I play at work. Anything to keep my eyes off the clock, I guess.