Americana

Driving through town provides the golden thrills of youth, for free, and without fear of growing too old, slowly, losing our hair, and dying irresponsibly, just for fun.

The honey coloured sky, branches silhouetted against burning summer, and rustling as we drive past, in our convertible, layers of air pouring through our mouths, and up in our eyes, holding the face steady, and kissing, pushing the hair back all through the past. You're curled on the back seat, the bottle of Jack rolling around amidst the maps and the water bottles, your famous blue raincoat, discarded, and tied to the aerial, flapping in the breeze down the long road away from here.

That old cassette mix we made has run out and the skips are beautiful, just like that soft lulling sigh coming from the engine as we head west and don't ever want to stop until we reach those soft majestic hills, in that golden valley where I spent my childhood. I'm going to take you up mountains and remove your jeans, pulling softly as you let your long hair roll across my cheeks and feel the gentle training of your sex register deeply with my most base feelings of compassion, and ridiculous denials.

When Born To Run came bursting from the stereo and licked the air with sexual guitar chords, you woke up and clasped your arms around my neck, my Ray Bans creaking slightly as your press your face against mine, and you smell of Ralph Lauren, and I smell of the city, and your soft petals drift under my shirt, the air expanding with your fingers and making me feel whole.

It won't take long before we run out of gas, and need to pick up some more cigarettes.