I am erasing you, and I am happy.
These roads could be consuming our souls and
would be none the wiser.
I slept on the hard shoulder, in the grass and you
drove ahead, flesh and bone and heart beating against ribs between lungs that work like paper swans
litter the tables and floors in a hotel 300 miles away
in the middle of a place where I've been left before.
There is no other set of co-ordinates on the face of this earth that looks exactly like this
exactly like you as you connect the cables and
let me sleep 'cause you know my energy levels are running low and it's
one hell of a drive, socks full of holes that you press to the pedal to
accelerate this heap of metal and plastic and tacky fabric pulling apart at the seams.
"I can't help you," consonants drifting in and out of the smoke from your mouth, "if you won't help yourself."
I am erasing you, and I am lost between here and Montauk and Idaho and home is calling,
or would be if I could catch it but
you're running all over the expanse of this globe and your heels are leaving no trails for me
to follow you, I would follow you into the dark or
the light or
that old hotel or
some fat old bastard pervert's house or
just anywhere the tank will take us.
But I'm crashed out on the side of our road,
flat out on my side,
head to the stone,
feet to the sky
and you're starting the drive to
"Wherever, whatever. Have a nice day."