Eighty

mellowing out with my elbows propped on a dirty windowsill, the smoke from my almost-gone cigarette melting into the air and blending with the rain like it was never there at all, and I'd do most anything to forget about you.

the highway connecting us is throwing the emerald mile markers in my face like overzealous peals of laughter that echo off the walls and make my ears ring; but for now all I hear is your voice, seven hundred miles away.

seven hundred miles of phone lines and sunrise conversations and promise-plans that seem farther away now than they did before, now that we throw out curses like "love" before we hang up; is there any truth to these heart-rending convictions?

you and I, we're smart enough not to tie ourselves down when we're so east and west, but I'm still primitive enough to want to scream when you bring her up, and tell me how your proverbial heart leapt to your throat and it wasn't me you were thinking about.

so it's six past six and the sun is lighting up the water like austrian crystal, and I'm mellowing out with my chin on my hands and a cigarette between my lips, trying to decide if I want the downpour to drown me or wash me straight into your mailbox.