Suspension

The mile markers stopped meaning anything

around mile 47.

I was alone on the highway,

the kind of alone that feels intentional,

like I could drive straight off

into the dark and no one would notice

for hours.

The white lines stretched ahead,

continuous, hypnotic,

each one identical to the last,

a rhythm that made my eyes heavy

and my thoughts scattered.

My headlights carved a tunnel

through the nothing.

Outside of that tunnel: everything else,

fields or woods or sky,

I couldn't tell anymore.

The dark is the same everywhere at night.

There were no other cars.

I checked the mirror

out of habit,

saw nothing behind me,

nothing ahead.

Just the road

and the white lines

and the pull of going forward

because stopping seemed worse.

I thought about pulling over,

about lying down in the grass

and watching the stars move,

but I didn't.

I kept driving

because the motion felt like purpose,

even though I had nowhere to be.

At some point

the highway merged into a smaller road.

I didn't notice when it happened.

The lines changed,

the markers stopped,

but the dark stayed the same.

And I kept going,

not toward anything,

but away from everything I knew,

which is the same as moving forward

when you're not paying attention.

The headlights kept cutting ahead.

The lines kept passing under.

I was suspended between

leaving and arriving,

and it felt like the most honest

place I'd ever been.