It's 9 pm and I'm driving down a dark
Arizona highway. Is anyone really suprised that I'm running, running at 80 miles per hour and 3100 rpms and a half
tank of gas, running from something?
I can't take it anymore. I hate walking past that tiny little apartment on
Ivy Street, where all I had in the bedroom was an old boxspring, a cheap mattress, and you, and that was okay. I hate driving by that beach, where we used to screw in the front seat of my car and you'd whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Remember when you promised to
believe in me, even when I stopped believing in myself?
I can't stand being so close to you, knowing that being with you was the last time I felt at home, knowing that you're just up the street, a right at the gate and then park at the end of the hill. I still remember the way. I wish I hadn't seen you
Sunday night. I actually fell asleep with you in my arms, fell asleep for the first time in months, and now I'm back to not sleeping at all. It's because you're not next to me.
I sincerely wish to get my heart broken somewhere new, so I can leave those memories behind in another state when I come back and never have to think of them again.
Yeah, I'm running. If it seems like I left town in a hurry, without telling anyone and without leaving a
forwarding address, well...
That's because I did.