“i never learned how to go slow,”
he said
while casually winding down Highway One
“it’s really a tapestry,” he says,
“these invisible cities woven into one.”
he’s convinced it’s easier to go fast-
it’s less painful that way,
or something like that.

we stand on the beach together-
our feet pocketing the holes in the sand
the wind plays freeze tag with my hair
there’s madness, but i haven’t found a method yet
or rhythm, for that matter.
except perhaps when we point north, there is no north
direction’s just an illusion, man, we’re just here to
grip the handlebars
keep riding, keep on riding
after a while
i hear your voice in my ear again
“Does our departure create arrival?”

i’m not sure until you define each
definitions written on my body with your hands

and then i know
god yes,
i’ve arrived.

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