A Taste of Leaving

The idling truck, a diesel drone,

a cloud of fumes, then it was known:

that sharp, sweet tang, a bitter bite,

pulling me back into the night.

A red gas can, a hurried pour,

that desperate smell I can't ignore.

The oil slick sheen on asphalt black,

a promise whispered, no turning back.

The kind of clean that strips the air,

leaving nothing but a stark, raw scare.

It gets in your throat, a choking sting,

that taste of what a flight can bring.

Of empty tanks and open road,

the heavy, sudden, lifted load.

And for a second, I could breathe.

The taste of needing to just leave.