an ever growing highway carves its path closer and closer to some field we mucked about in years ago. i wrote it a letter in hopes of some reconciliation: "dear highway, i know you can't help yourself, you simply move in the direction you have been told. but we played there, in that field once or twice, while we were in love. i miss her as i would miss the grass and trees that would surely be buried under you." the highway pondered this letter. considered its options, and replied "i'm sorry, i'm a highway, i don't know love. please don't write again as i am very busy." fuck you, highway. hopelessly heartless that inanimate object is. and i guess all i can do is make new memories to replace the old but that seems like a lot of work. since the day she left i've become an artist in the process of figuring out clever ways to break girls hearts within the month; the idea of new beginnings excites me but this feeling rapidly drains with each passing day. it is not their fault of course, every one of them pretty and nearly all of them rather smart, and sometimes while i stand in the kitchen and smoke my last cigarette of the day i even miss a few of them. but never for long. it's a grey and blustery evening out and i consider calling you. that pair of lakai skate shoes which swing in the branches of my tree twirl and twirl and twirl in the wind but they still hold on (maybe they are not so heartless). a crack of thunder rattles my windows and a memory of her and i having sex at seventeen surges across my room and settles between my gut and just under my lungs but of course it fades rather quickly; i wander into bed glad to be sleeping alone.