Lonesome Traveler, Midnight
Midnight road, engine low, no one calling my name
dashboard light flickering, dim and uneven
and I kept going because stopping felt like answering a question I never asked
and the road didn’t care it just kept humming under me like some low confession
tires whispering secrets I wasn’t ready to hear but heard anyway
because there’s no silence out there just different kinds of noise
and somewhere between one state line and the next I forgot what I was running from
or maybe I remembered too clearly and that’s worse
because memory don’t sit still it rides shotgun
taps the glass points at things says look that could’ve been yours
and I say yeah yeah keep talking
like I got a choice
gas stations glowing like small-time heavens
men with tired eyes buying coffee like it’s forgiveness
and me counting change like time still matters
like there’s somewhere I’m supposed to arrive
but every place feels like a pause not a point
Kerouac said lonesome like it was a place you pass through
but it ain’t it sticks
it rides your shoulders
leans into your ear when the engine cuts
and asks now what
and I laugh because what else is there
the night stretches out like it’s got nothing but time
and I got nothing but movement
so we understand each other
met a woman once who said you look like you’re leaving before you even arrive
and I told her maybe I am
maybe that’s the only honest way to do it
she didn’t argue just watched me like she already knew the ending
and the road keeps writing itself under me
long sentence no punctuation no mercy
just miles stacked on miles like thoughts you don’t finish
and I keep reading it wrong on purpose
because if I get it right
I might have to stop
and stopping feels too much like staying
and staying feels too much like belonging
and belonging
I don’t know
I think I lost that somewhere between the first goodbye and the last one I didn’t say
so I drive
and I drive
and I drive
like the answer’s out there waiting at the edge of the Grand Canyon
and maybe it is
or maybe the trick is there ain’t no edge
just more road
more night
more me
talking
finally saying things out loud
because there’s nobody left to pretend for
and that’s the real lonesome traveler
not the person on the road
but the one who realizes
the road’s been inside them the whole time
and it ain’t going nowhere
so neither is she
just circling it
again
and again
and again
until the words run out
or he does
whichever comes first
Bleu de minuit 