I am driving down a highway dark

I am driving down a highway dark–
green signs looming, leering up above–
each exit, flashing under piercing headlights,
speeds by with fame before the fade
and suddenly I see it no more–

this drive is the story of every girl I might have loved.

I am driving down a highway dark
and I remember the first–
mirrors in each other's eyes and gently woven fingers
on a soft blue skylit backdrop
that added one more brushstroke
to a timeless work
of lost art–
lost because it is flitting
like the sight of each and every tree along the roadside.

Like most I drove away,
fuel tank filled with liquidated promises, and still
I am driving down a highway dark
with brakes that last I checked–
the hit-and-run at exit 19–
no longer work.

I am driving down a highway dark;
at one point I grew brave enough to stop.
Then just before the morning
I was driving down this highway drunk
and speeding to outstrip the sun
because I was afraid–
afraid because I found then left again
what I thought was home,
and I can-will-not come back.

I am driving down a highway dark
and sober, twice pulled over–
credit card maxed out on gasoline–
but I will drive and drive.

I am driving down a highway dark,
but I will not stop until I hear a new voice–
one that overcomes the forlorn hum of the engine
and calls me home.