I smoked cigarettes on your bridge and carried burritos through your tunnel. The folks under your tent waved hello, but the wind in my face kept me from returning the favor. I wasn’t going to anyway. Not today. Not yesterday. Not a reflection on their effort, nor is it a reflection on my consideration. I just don’t feel like it.
Oil change. Mileage. Drive another hour into the future. Wander. Wonder. Wind it down. Twelve, seven, six, fourteen. I can’t see you and I don’t really want to.