The radio aches a little song as we drive over coast roads and out across the hem of the horizon. Each note is a dodged pothole, an amber light shot through, a guttural growl of tire tread. We sigh through counties as the radio tells us about love. About all the things it wants it to be but here, your hand over mine on the gearstick, is what it is; the sky bruising dark above us as the sun jealously steals the warmth for itself. We keep driving; singing our moment to the world.
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