when you break down, i'll drive out and find you

there are things you can't admit anywhere but a midnight highway. things you can't let your heart feel until trees past by in blurs of ebony, wheels thump methodically beneath, and staticy radio waves sit stagnant in the passenger seat. like he's really gone this time. or where did the time go.

but the beautiful thing about the highway is its continuity. you can hop on i-40 in winston-salem, north carolina and take it straight to santa fe, new mexico. and you remind yourself that you should sometime. and let the crooks and turns, roadside diners and mom-and-pop grocery stores scattered like tumbleweeds along deserted, sunny roads, have their influence on  you.

because the highway does eventually stop. and the wheels become bald with time and sand. and maybe you stop along the shore. maybe in a crowded parking deck. maybe along the sidewalk of your hometown, strangely familiar yet only as a photograph. either way, you stop. because the heart can only take so much realization. and the soul so much clarity, until little by little the breaks become as deep as the pavement crevices beneath your feet as you open the door to home.