Turnpike

We'll never get out of here

Darling.

It's hard to listen to your words, still, I pick such terrible times to hear you and the words rage through me like an infection. It scratches my skin from the inside until the fever rises in it. I cry when I should be happy, shaking tears into my hands and echoing empty sadness into the quiet apartment. December is unseasonably warm.

I left New York this morning, sunrise over glass buildings and an ethereal mist around the Manhattan skyline. New Jersey is pretty when it doesn't try. When someone can appreciate it for what it is. Sometimes we run and run without reprieve. But don't worry. 

I just need to catch my breath.