She's driving steady sixty down the interstate tonight.
Headlights in her face, and the river on her right.
Every single piece aches;
And though it takes every effort to keep her foot off the brake
she knows it would be a mistake
to stop driving now.

She scans the radio but the notes elicit nothing;
there are no lyrics to sync to screaming.

She did stupid things tonight.
Things like brush her hair
and pack schoolbooks
and lie to her parents
and exchange dirty looks
with the blond boy sitting next to her.

She wasn't thinking.
She's never thinking…
At least not straight,
and it's a little late
in the game to change those habits anyhow.

She is still driving,
closer to some, farther from others
while the radio remains silent
and she writes her own songs using
the curve of his back as paper while losing
the notes to the gold in his eyes.

Should it bother her that she'll never find them again?


Things never turn out how you want. Wrote this while driving tonight. And I'm sure it could use some editing but I can't read it anymore.

This is all I have.