I’ll be racing across the united states of who knows where with the radio on one station and I’ll listen to the static as the frequency goes in and out, and I will listen for you in the foggy, fading sonnets that drone on and on and on.

You will tell me to slow down, to breathe, and to think and that running away doesn’t help. The fluorescent traffic cones urge me to go on and on and on until my heart no longer aches for your skin against mine.

The gas gauge reads ‘Empty’, but I use the hills and curves of the road to scoot further and further away from my memories of you. My knuckles are white from gripping on to the steering wheel, the only direction I’ve had in a long time.