twenty-eight august
eight : fourteen p.m.

i'm all out of change and you're i-95, and she'd asked about you.

you're still around. a few blocks away. you don't stop by anymore, and i don't stop by as often. maybe because the spontaneity of summer has passed, maybe because you've lost interest, maybe because i'm tired of trying.

but i'm always thinking about it. dark highways and we'd rather repeat ourselves a hundred times than turn the music down.