Eighty miles, gray roads and blue skies on a Sunday afternoon. Counting the turnpikes and passing semis never meant so much to me as it has these last 30 minutes. With my fingers pressed against the window I can still trace your fingers in mine. Skin smooth as glass. County boundary lines like slow steps toward a dream of you, one night ago�now journey back through the distance we have placed between ourselves--strategically placed as calm as the shadows of the trees alongside the highway shoulders.
Shoulders, with my head on yours, I�ve never felt as safe as I did last night.
Turn left, turn right, repeat. The collections of oaks and maples radiant in the illumination, exposing there naked mass, covered with the chill of the daylights bringing. I never thought April could attest cold as it has today but somehow it proves me wrong.
And that night we shared, the cold biting through our cover, through our hair, amidst an early spring darkness. Yet you brought warmth to the embrace. Somehow, perfectly--perfect as the placed bands around the deck of cards upon the kitchen table--you always bring the warmth.
Silence. Breaks.
Shopping carts clatter. Headlights ahead.
Do you know your eyes have grown more beautiful over the passing year my darling?
Chapstick lips cut through the air. In one act--the art of passion we once shared on a stranger�s floor--I remember what it�s like to be love, to feel love, to need love.
Experience.
Awake from memories. Eyes display an open road. One exit sign marks the path. Away from the miles, away from the trees, far from the semis, displaced from you. Another eighty miles till a touch. One more lifetime till a love. Again.
Drive on.
Into the cold.