The skies are cloudless (it's such a clichéd
expression) and we are speeding towards open roads
and freedom and a resolution of this love story.

We are la bohème, mosaic-broken
floating artists of our own Picasso-painting-world.
I feed a sharpie addiction, you get high
on Nirvana and Van Gogh.
(We steal our lines from Sylvia Plath
And indie songs.)

This is no scene from a Hallmark card.
I sing loudly and off-key, while the wind
whips dust into our eyes (so much
for a convertible) and you curse
under your breath.

I'd like you to say you love me
but I won't believe you even if you did anyway.

& still the highway signs stand
stark against the cloudless emptiness,
a measure of how far we've run from home,
reminders of the plight of the earthbound,
the confined, they (we) who cannot fly.)