Riding Together

there is that interstate we always go through. it takes me two freeways to get to usually. but if i wanted to take a more unfamiliar route, one freeway. i drive north to get to it and it runs east and west. it will always remind me of you when i drive it east bound. the thing is, i have to drive it west bound first, then turn around and take it east bound. it's right there. that last stretch that is so specific.

there's a pattern and that's why it's so definitive in our relationship. there's only one way and certain steps we have to take to get to it. i leave my home, take a freeway i hardly ever go on to your neck of the woods , spend time with you, and when the time comes to take you home, that's the time. that's when it happens. that moment usually before i get to your house to drop you off; those 8 minutes.
there's certain music that play within the car. for some reason, the melody switches and it's of a serene nature. there's a certain wave of road we go through, and i can write a whole essay describing it's construction alone.
i drift off into this time warp. there's a certain beginning. right when i merge on the start of that stretch of broken concrete, i zoom under a couple bridges hanging over me. at that point, its like running into jello. it's four miles of a jello bubble. if i had to give it a flavor, it'd be raspberry.
i tend to drive faster than the rest of the cars. we're moving at 75 miles an hour.
right as the bridges pass, the road narrowly curves to the left. from there, i have to watch out for a merge of oncoming lanes from the right. right after is when it curves right, directionally. i love those curves. it feels like a meaningless obstacle and 3 minutes pass like seconds. i pretend i'm racing. it's exciting and i clutch the shift knob and drive with one hand. it's a roller coaster but with complete control. thus, the power of a moment.

whenever i drive through this neck of the freeway, it'll feel like you're riding shotgun along with me crooning through every curve and feeling every bump that follow because we recognize the pattens all too familiarly. the climactic jumps still get us even when we know it's coming. they're dramatic. i always apologize afterwards when the car bounces hard like an airplane tackling a landing and i never know why.

the last four minutes always feel new. they feel raw and i never get used to it. maybe it's because we're recovering from the drop and our minds etch-a-sketch.
i know that once i drop you off, i'll believe i'll never see you again, but somehow we manage to bump into each other when the season comes around.

this interstate has a secret. it's alive and people pass by not recognizing it.