it stinks of heat
as the old, but not ancient, car
rambles down the hedge-lined
come-back way.
he thinks of what should be-
but won't.
distance is his drug.
distance from her
-from himself
-from what will be.
he gets high on seperation.
tripping in the margins of exile
1 comment:
sometimes we get stuck on the spaces.
sometimes its about reconciling ourselves to distance, resisting the temptation to fill it.
sometimes its just an akward car ride.
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