I remember, once, flying
with you down this highway,
two demons, darting through
sky, grim, impassive,
past trees pretty
in their way.
I could not remember--
that day in the car with you--
this moment now,
driving with a girl
I have only begun to know,
a girl who you will never.
Memory, it turns out, works
another way, like an imperfect
tape recorder, burping back sound.
But now, I can remember you
then, caffeinated and strong,
chattering while you drove.
Me scatterbrained, withdrawn.
And the map, I can remember,
the map we didn't have.
You said without a map,
we would be like ants,
scurrying blindly along.
But I convinced you.
I said, what good is a map when
our location is always changing,
like the ground beneath
these wheels, like the odometer
of your car, like everything.
And you drove on.
I remember little else about that day,
not the way the landscape looked,
nor some loose, locating smell.
But I bet it was just like this one.
That same grim sky, the same pretty trees.
No girl then, or a different girl.
Just me and you, and we were flying.
Beautiful, Alex.
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