written by: David J. Roussel
We move fast,
keeping our speed up.
We need to break the hold of this angry summer.
pushing that pedal to the floor,
eating up the blacktop
in a vain race;
as if we could change our attitude.
We said “Fuck it!”
and blew past every gas station;
knowing this was a one way trip.
Taking a chance,
gambling on a hunch;
we were gonna make it
anywhere but that little home town.
Population: Down by 2.
We met Freedom under a blue sky;
staring down the barrel of September.
Your feet up on the dash,
hand out the window,
in the slipstream.
a promise ain’t a promise.
it’s more than words could say.
It’s a bag of clothes,
a case of beer,
a couple packs of cigarettes
and a tank full of gas.
Maybe it’s just desperation?
Maybe we didn’t think this through?
But, I can tell by the look on your face,
by your laugh,
and your smile
and the way I know your eyes are shining
behind those cheap drug store sunglasses;
that this is a promise kept.
How long is “too long”?
How much is “too much”?
I’m aiming to never find out.
Something you like comes on the radio
and you crank it up
and start singin’ along
and I try to push the pedal down
just a little further;
get a few more miles behind us
before anyone even knows we’re gone.
It’s like a prison break.
A last hurrah.
The Exodus from Egypt.
Shooting across the face of the world
in my old pick up truck.
Damned if we did,
sure as hell damned if we didn’t.
So we did.
Blasted off across the countryside
like two astronauts
launching into the great-blue-forever.
it’s a perfect sound
and I smile
as your head rests on my shoulder.
The road stretches out in front of us
like a long, beckoning ribbon;
guiding us into the future,
into each other,
away from everything we have been.
and the road
and the new unknown.
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