"Roscoe" Midlake

I knew, even before we drove out here, that it would end with me on the road walking in the same direction. Eight hours delayed. Jeans a bit dirtier. I can't recall the accident responsible for this stain on my knee. My pack has half a dozen cigarettes unaccounted for. And my shoulder is sore.

Three hours ago, I said, "I just want to feel the wind." You waited patiently. I realized then that graciousness--or perhaps mercy--is nothing but the postponement of separation.

You've disappeared westward and I head for the darkness of those mountains. Dust. Dust. Dust. Blowing in the still hot air. You were not supposed to believe what I said.