Highway Eighty

In my sleep we are sitting together in your  car and we are laughing, because your seats are heated. I still drive the car that I cried to you in, and you sold the car that I cried to you in (something that went undisclosed to the new owner), and you love me anyway.

When I wake up I begin falling, my teeth come loose, and the snakes are only trying to bite me. I go to work, less dressed than I would like to be, and the speeches are personal and abundant. Running, I miss the train. The clocks are unreadable and I'm busy writing illegible garble, it's so romantic that I cannot cry, and you hate me, anyway.