Cedar Rapids always looked so beautiful when viewed from the rear-view mirror, the passenger seat occupied by a bag of beef jerky, carton of Marlboro's, my laptop, my iPod on shuffle, and the moon roof open despite the 30 degree weather. The music cranked up so loud that I can't hear myself singing along, the gas tank on full, my body running on E. I've finally managed to wiggle the noose off from around my neck, and I'm running as fast as I can.
You're in Paris for a year, and I'm on my way to… God only knows where. I just know that it has to get better than this; anywhere but here. And how often have we found ourselves here, somehow drowning in a love that wasn't even an inch deep. We spend a month of intimacy followed by three to twelve months of silence, putting as many miles between us as possible. Promises lost their meaning within a month of our first meeting four years ago. That doesn't seem to stop us from our incessant creations of more empty vows.
How many more hearts should be broken by our inability to ever let go of something we've never even had? It's taken me six months to finally realize that you're never coming home, and with that knowledge I guess it's time that I stopped looking back. But the snow-covered landscape looks more beautiful as it gradually fades out of my rear-view mirror. Everything has changed, just like we swore it never would. You're in Paris for ever, and I'm on my way to nowhere, but I know that even nowhere has to be better than here…