silent dim way of spirits

It's ten o'clock and we're already yawning. She pulls her fingers through reddish blond hair and talks about traffic court and moving south.

So who's the adult who lives in here?

Radio stations come in as crisply as headlights on dotted lines. Laughs come as sharply as plastic ball to plastic bat.

Are they, like, the school gangsters?

Ghosts on the highway each night. If I were the ghost in the windmill, I'd come down to this field to run from sweatshirt to sweatshirt, laughing in the silent dim way of spirits.

The thing is that you can't be afraid. You have to push through.

Reading about writing and as I listen, something glows again.

I should be here.

We should go sometime. I don't need to drink. I just like to dance.

I like learning to love small towns. But as she drives through the two stoplights that separate us from my car, I have the urge to tell her to keep going. Keep moving. Past these places.

I've lost the old nostalgia that upstate skies had for me, even from the start. I'm south and the stars are sharp and she laughs, good friend, keeping me clear, present.

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

I want to be the ghost tonight and not the driver. I want to get lost tonight, flowing through forests under the red slice of moon until someone whispers softly for me to turn back.