On my way to Jackson Hole I stopped in Madison at a roadside
restaurant. I watched the cream in my coffee mix like water and paint. I found a poorly penned letter from you tucked in my leather bound
An apology for being a novice lover and never being strong enough to
help carry my darkest thoughts. You beg me to be safe and to stay inspired. There are a number of faces I could visit on the map, but none of them deserve my sorrow.
Back home it poured for days on end, in the desert I lie hopelessly
on the red ground praying for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.
At the fill station in Ogallala, I can’t work up the guts to call
with an update. I spend two hours listening to your voicemail. The longer I’m on these straight, monotonous roads, the better you sound.