The green signs keep appearing in the dark

The green signs keep appearing in the dark,

announcing names I'll never need to know:

Marvin, Cross Creek, Sycamore Grove.

Each one glowing, then gone.

I pass them like they're breadcrumbs

I'm not meant to follow,

and somewhere behind each sign

there are people heading home,

or toward home,

or toward whatever they think home is.

A man is probably speeding on the off-ramp,

late for something that can't wait.

A woman is probably driving alone,

playing a song on repeat

to keep herself awake.

A child is probably asleep in the back seat,

dreaming of a place that already exists,

that they don't have to build

or reach for.

And I'm here between destinations,

watching their exits light up

like options I'm not allowed to choose.

The highway doesn't care where I'm going.

It just keeps me moving

past everyone else's arrival.

By morning, I'll be somewhere else.

These towns will still be here,

living their small lives,

not knowing I passed through their names.