I wake up drunk with myself.
Drinking manhattans in mountains
if only a reminder for a city
that used to live in my bones.
She sits here, with a hollow breath,
waiting for a call that might change lives.
I sit there, with a mug,
a black coffee covered in apple stickers.
It's cold in mornings but we dress for summer.
What we want always, eventually, comes.
I hold hot heat in my palms, grip the wheel
as the sun dances through a windshield.
The rhythmic melody of gravel on rubber
turns into the song of my existence:
an unnamed highway slapped on maps,
in awe, and never fully seen.