back road drives

Run away with me. Stay in a cheap, outdated hotel with me because that’s the only place we can afford, and drive down the car-infested highways with me in a beat up old van and park in the middle of an dark, empty field with me and lay a blanket on the hood and let’s gaze at the diamond-encrusted sky for a couple of hours. The world is our movie theater, the fireflies our actors, the clouds our scenery, our eyes the cameras. Dance with me in the rain, and roll the windows down to let the summer breeze dry our clothes as we race down the back roads.
Drive into the city with me. Let’s explore the dirty sidewalks of this concrete jungle and take pictures of our sparkling eyes and unkempt hair that glow in the light of the neon signs. Wear your fanciest clothes with me, and let’s have a night on the town window shopping and and dancing and telling secrets and pretending to own the world. We can’t afford to eat anywhere but the cheap diner with the crappy coffee, but we pretend like we’re in a 5-star restaurant, and with our imaginations, it is one.
Travel up the mountains and across the rivers with me. Let’s climb until our arms are sore and sunburnt, swim until our legs ache, and explore until we know every nook and cranny of the earth like the backs of our hands. No mountain is too high and no valley too low and no plain too wide when we explore together. We might not be able to afford fancy clothes and expensive things, but these kind of mind-broadening experiences are free and worth more than all the lamborghinis and louboutins in the world.
Run away with me. I promise you won’t regret a thing.
—  emvincible-b
run away with me

“Run away with me. Stay in a cheap, outdated hotel with me because that’s the only place we can afford, and drive down the car-infested highways with me in a beat up old van and park in the middle of a dark, empty field with me and lay a blanket on the hood and let’s gaze at the diamond-encrusted sky for a couple of hours. The world is our movie theater, the fireflies our actors, the clouds our scenery, our eyes the cameras. Dance with me in the rain, and roll the windows down to let the summer breeze dry our clothes as we race down the back roads. Drive into the city with me. Let’s explore the dirty sidewalks of this concrete jungle and take pictures of our sparkling eyes and unkempt hair that glow in the light of the neon signs. Wear your fanciest clothes with me, and let’s have a night on the town window shopping and and dancing and telling secrets and pretending to own the world. We can’t afford to eat anywhere but the cheap diner with the crappy coffee, but we pretend like we’re in a 5-star restaurant, and with our imaginations, it is one. Travel up the mountains and across the rivers with me. Let’s climb until our arms are sore and sunburnt, swim until our legs ache, and explore until we know every nook and cranny of the earth like the backs of our hands. No mountain is too high and no valley too low and no plain too wide when we explore together. We might not be able to afford fancy clothes and expensive things, but these kind of mind-broadening experiences are free and worth more than all the lamborghinis and louboutins in the world. Run away with me. I promise you won’t regret a thing.”

Escapism

In the moonlight I pretend this is something different. You’re in love with me, and I’m in love with you, and we’re making love, not fucking, and your fingertips digging into my hips are setting my soul on fire. It’ll all be bland again in the morning. The alcohol helps me fake it.

When I drive home, I sometimes keep going. I pass by the place where I sleep and do homework and dream and try to get lost as hell on back country roads. I always end up back on roads I know, driving in the same directions.

Sometimes I take walks alone with my journal and write shitty poetry in the park. Or I just lean back in my desk chair, listening to music while I’m supposed to be doing work, and I daydream and being somebody else somewhere else, a more joyous version of myself.

I’m bored. I’m tired. I’m not getting enough of anything. My hands are getting tired of holding books and pens and bodies that don’t love me. My mind is getting tired of math and lecture halls and bland conversation. Every inch of me, inside and out, is shouting for something new and wild and different, something that makes my heart swell and my breathing stutter. Baby, I wish it was you, but clearly you’re just a quick fix. Getting drunk cures the boredom but after a while that’s boring too. I don’t know what I need.