Miles Per Hour

 Dried eyes lost in the darkness of passers-by.

Nothing could alleviate the isolation of a midnight mind,

I'd be behind; moments of suffering

Locked away in my head,

The space between realism and recollection.

We'd count the blades of grass folded over the highway

Leering without point

Watching the red signals blink while counting stars,

Letting the radio fade into ear-drums

Gazing along white painted lines.

We'd stare at the planes overhead

Imagining seats/erasing our drive.

Nostalgia's lackluster

Friends are worn faces known for years 

Swathed in servitude bound to the grave.

No wake will celebrate us.

Loneliness is a part of our endeavors be it will, or want.

I leer into the trees catching little shadows

Blinking through slim stilts of wood:

'65

Daydream lifeless into a median.

Sprayed thin:

Is it goal or need? 

Wish or want?