Home is the place you left.

Between departure and arrival, where the blur of headlights,

and static lead you into the unknown.

A silence between songs, a geography of waiting.

Places only meant to be passed through.

Time slips sideways — no longer a line,

but a loop of glances, receipts, and cigarette smoke.

Outside, the road stretches like a sentence with no punctuation,

just the endless clause of movement.

You start to forget your destination, or if you ever really had one.

Here, memory is slow to follow.

It lags behind at the last turn-off, where a payphone rusts beneath a flickering sign,

as rain tattoos the windshield in a code no one will decipher.

You are not lost, — only suspended, as if the world has taken a breath and held it,

waiting to exhale you somewhere else.

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