RUSTED MILES

An ominous trail in their dark ashes— each ellipsis hid a treacherous bend. I feel the camper’s hollow rattle between cracked ribs that won’t quite mend. Not their youth, but mine— still burning in oil-smoke haze too thick to see. Torn nights of endless yearning— a senseless chase I couldn’t face, and wouldn’t flee. Would the dust of reckless trysts still stir— and burn again? Would my reading turn to riding that soulless path, the camper’s sin? The snare of wishing for what’s long missing— new campgrounds, starlit nights... But on that road, the rain keeps falling— and all that’s left are rusted rites. - An echo to a friend's "Road Trip"