silence

not quite silent

music and the road beneath my tires

I turn Mac Miller up louder

I’m not listening 

as loud as it will play and I hear nothing

I’m too lost in my mind 

too many thoughts leftover from a busy day 

I drive the highway like I’ve been doing it all my life 

I’m in my element and I’m finally alone

Hampton, Boston, Portsmouth, Portland 

a different significance to each 

every visit makes me wonder

will I be back here again? 

in some cases, no

I will never go to Hampton again

not until my volume goes higher than forty

and the speed limit is faster than seventy

and the people around me are happy to be in my company 

the Honda shakes as I go over potholes

in the dim glow of the headlights I see white dashed lines and pavement 

things I’ve learned to trust 

I pass by that glowing sign that tells me how far I am from home 

the construction on the bridge is my welcome mat 

but I’m not paying attention to that 

I’m paying attention to the cold March breeze

the smell of marijuana and the taste of cheap vodka 

the last drag of an american spirit 

and the road beneath my tires 

I wonder

will I ever be back here again?