The Drive Home

Departing from you is close to my own discreet hell. An inferno bent on taking you from me. The comfortless avenue leading elsewhere maybe the loneliest sight these broken eyes will ever see. On the rare captivated night I might catch the aroma of autumn. That essence will pass through my nose for a split instant. It brings me to a state of mind where I think of what is in store. Then the doubled yellow line to my left brings me back to the bitter reality that these content days of summer are numbered. The taillights in from of me glare red; hinting that life is proceeding and I will once again be living for the weekends, simultaneously with the rest of the planet. The ample crossroads leading to the lurid freeway seemed safer on the ride over today. The dimly lit on-ramp provides little assistance for my glum plight. The bloodthirsty expressway is the most chilling experience of the drive home, the revolting wind shouting its mad song of curses and hostility. The span over the Missouri is my only sense of beauty on my adventure. Black and blue water sending me to your arms. Another burst of realness hitting Exit 13. On the all-too-common sorrowful night I long to leave the wheel untouched, coasting into the median, soaring headfirst, gracefully, through the faded and fogged windshield. But the thought of seeing you sad sobers me enough to drive on. Stopping at the same damn stoplight every night. I often look forward to these midnight rendezvous. Gifting me with a taste of friendship. Passing the apartment complex on my right. Night-dreaming of the simple pleasures of the occupants. Yearning to taste the freedom that they most likely take for granted: an ice-cold beer, the conversations with a friend. I’m coming up on the third and final hill, turning on my left blinker. My headlights illuminate the entryway to suburbia. Pulling up to the living unit I labeled “HOME”. Turning off and putting to sleep my motorized companion. I walk up the dull stairs into my blackened realm. I switch on my light, fire-up my radio to sing me lullabies while I sit down. I stare at this old notebook, pick up my white pen, and fall asleep.