I’ve got a penchant for scripting it all out.

An undeliverable mess of undesirable doubt.

Under my tires are miles of dissension laced with hours of invention.

Hours of the freshest ideas that may have brought you closer.

But these tires have crossed mud and sand and drowsy swerves.

And they still know nothing of any script wrought by weakening nerve.

Passing thousands of lines, thousands of times.

They’ve become razors, making a perforated interstate.

Newly cut roadbed slicing from your door to my freshly cleaned slate.

My side, the fringe left on spiral.

Your side, clean white rule.

Blank, and yet to be filed.

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