Illinois

I swear you try to police me and I know it's hard for us but I trust you completely.
I swear you criticize me. You hold me up to bright white lights to try and find faults inside me.

Well, oh well.
The shine of reflectors marking the boundries and contours every spurring you onward further from home.
It's two in the morning, we're crossing the mighty Mississippi over Davenport on 80, towards Iowa City.

I swear you separate me from what I really love and what compliments me
I know you're feeling lonely, but know you're not replaced by all these places we've been going
For each point of contention, each cause for a dispute, I was stubborn and small enough to blame it all on you
On the train to Boston South, I remember having my first doubts; I wrote to you and then I called her.

I selfishly ignored your calls only to realize how I missed you during that long and quiet driving last night down through Illinois and east into the sunrise, where on the edge of sleep, we woke up to the light.

The road and open fields at night, the headlights form an endless line to planes that trace across the sky and miles above, they watch us all go