Lately I’ve been fighting off these stretches of desolation;
I’ve been attempting to speed through the desert and come out in a field
where the lilies are growing wild and the air tastes like home.
But the stretch of highway is never long enough to reach the field
and I’m constantly running low on gas; the more I rush the longer I take,
despite all my best efforts; all I want to do is reach you.
This distance is our own - built with our own hands;
this is the place between two hearts, where skeletons and scars wage war
against serotonin and oxytocin and what’s left is a wasteland.