The Side of the Road

And I stand on the side of the road, watching him drive away, his car becoming smaller and smaller against the wall of horizon. I sit on my suitcase, tattered and ripped from my travels. I have searched long and hard for these moments that seem to escape this troubled heart. I have walked away from this life only to live it again with more pain and less zeal.

I wish he would drive back, turn that black ford around, and pick me up again. But there is no sign of that happening. I pick up my suitcase and walk down the road, the dust whipping about and dancing in a most miraculous way. I do not have time to watch it. These burdens are getting heavier with every step I take. And there is no place to rest, they are all miles away.

It is starting to grow darker, the heavy black cape falling over everything in shadow and silhouettes. The sun fades into the abyss of sand ahead of me, drowning so beautifully beneath the rough waves of desert. The moon is rising triumphant, born as Aphrodite from the sea, her long black hair covering everything.

The stars appear, as if beckoned by the howls of discontent that spring from the throats of wolves. I walk down the middle of the road, my suitcase left behind for it was to heavy to bring along. If only I could find someone to pick me up, take me to a quite room where I could sleep, ignore these nightmares, stave off these dreams.

I recite Shakespeare to the sky, to pass the time. I have left my shoes about ten feet behind me. Heels were not made for roads like this. I am shivering, almost willing to turn back to get my sweater from my to heavy suitcase that lies several yards behind. Who knew the desert could be so cold when the Sun is not high?

And the sweetest lies float through my head, owls hooting in the background. He isn't coming back, and I feel like I'm drowning on land, can't breathe or move. I am standing on the side of the road, my lungs collapsing within me, they are full of water it seems. The headlights that approach me do not stop or even look, they journey on, flying past as if I did not exist.

The ghosts are falling further and further behind. How far have I walked? A mile? Two? I do not know. I only know that my shoes can no longer be seen and that I have almost forgotten my suitcase. Strains of Native American music seem to twist about me, entangling my arms and legs in the sounds, pulling me back up then setting me back down.

I'm not even moving now. I'm to tired and to cold to continue moving. So I lie in the middle of the road, still faintly warm from the kiss of the sun. I think of him, his car flying down the road, fleeing the ghosts, fleeing me. Tears of unknown origin seem to fall from my eyes. I can't seem to find the reasons why.

And, once again, I stand on the side of the road, watching him drive away, his car becoming smaller and smaller against that wall of the horizon. I am sitting on my suitcase, tattered and ripped from all my running. I have searched to long and to hard for those moments that do not exist. I have walked from one evil into the next.