Roadtrip.

We drove through thunderclaps and micro bursts. Bay harbor waves swept against the windshield and we clutched fingers and grazed wrists. We laughed, and I sang, and you smiled. I rolled my seat back, and fell sleepily into dreams of thigh-high snake grass and faded maps. We visited mystic bookstores piled high with weathered pages, sweating with old books that hung oddly from the tight spaces they were confined to. I ran my fingers over crackling spines, feeling each fondled vertebrate and wondering about the lives of previous owners. You showed me an intriguing handwritten note on the inner fold. We drove past rundown buildings and cinder block apartments with bars on the windows and you told me they were beautiful. We skipped to the pool to read our new books, our old books. I read Kerouac and you read Burroughs and when the humid air was suffocating, you immersed yourself in water and I dipped my toes in the shaded ripples, watching you. You took me to lovely little restaurants and we ate until our stomachs were tight and our mouths were sticky with honey toast. I ran my fingers over banisters by passing gondolas and crossed my legs against the glass of the aquarium for a very long time. Sting rays and silver dollars and electric blue fish swam beside me and I wished to be inside the water with them. I hated to leave the shiny city and the white air, but what a sight to behold.