April 2007
Count the miles down to the end of the world, leaving behind where we'd once inhabited to an all new and unfamiliar place. I'd watch the sand pile up on the sides of the road like sitting at the bottom of an hourglass, until my intrepid was buried between the dunes and I knew I'd soon be at your door. Those nights spent in perfect bliss, but nothing was ever so wonderful as those long drives home. The early morning, floating along as the sun crept its way over the dunes. Windows down, and I'd sing along to the old jazz standards. Songs about love and let it all pour out. When I'd reach the tunnel, the highway'd drag me back under a city I'd never liked the sight of anyway. Those drives were therapy, in a way. I'd make my way home, to suffer all that space that now existed between the mattress and the ceiling, but now I'd bask in the open air, for at the end of the day, knowing that I was capable of that kind of love was enough.