Did you know that in the midwest, roads look like they can just go on forever? Maybe some of them do, I wouldn’t know. But, God, you can just see for miles and miles.

It’s almost hypnotic, and by the time I lose count of all the corn fields I’ve passed, I’m done crying over you.

When I park the pickup truck on the side of the road, the moon’s rising larger than I’ve ever seen it, and I’ve got a map with your handwriting all over it spread out over the steering wheel. I’ve hardly traveled half way, and your mix tapes have played themselves out.

Part of me hates you for dying, you know. At least I can be honest with myself, something you never were.

I fold the map back up and I tuck this one last piece of you into the back pocket of my faded jeans. I hop into the bed of the truck. It’s just the kind of night for sleeping under the stars.

And anyway, I’d probably have to drive for days to reach a hotel.

I’m looking up at the sky. But all I see is your face. And all I read is your name.