Between Houses, Hours Unravel

The highway stretches like a thread,

a thin, frayed line between us,

hours counted not in miles

but in silences I carry in my mouth.

I drove past gas stations blinking

sleepy neon promises

and fields folding into themselves

under the weight of low clouds.

Each turn I rehearsed the words

I never found the courage to say—

thank you, I’m sorry, I miss you.

The cracked windshield frames it all:

an empty road,

a quiet house waiting too far away,

and the long space in between

where everything gets tangled,

lost in time

and what we didn’t say.