I-95 never looked better.

We have twenty four hours and a car ride home
or someplace similar, but I keep questioning these road signs.

And in your old university sweatshirt, the seat feels colder still
and the glove compartment is named wrongly so,
because I can’t find anything to warm my hands the way you might,
but you shouldn’t blame yourself.

Quarter ‘til one, I’ll fall asleep at the wheel
and you won’t hear until December,
after most of the phone calls have already been made.

Chances are, you’ll still taste like lighter fluid and cry for the moon.