Liquid Ghosts Moving Through the Syringe of Highway

All those late-night road trips where my true north was family, a city, or lover calling me home. Radio blaring in surround sound, like the gods of rock were riding shotgun. Checking the rear-view for cops or to see if my bleary eyes were still alive. Windows wide open, taking in the crisp, clear air like it was breathable gold. Sleeplessness alternately turning my brain into pure electricity or Demerol dreams. Oncoming headlights, liquid ghosts moving through the syringe of highway. Road trips like those were their own drug. All the mile markers blurring by, looking more like Jesus on the cross than a simple countdown of how far I had to drive until reaching home.


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