Like middle lines on the highway. Pushing torn skylines to far off places. The bottom half of the sky is soaked in ink. The top is far to bright to stare at. And I am in the middle somewhere. I have fewer buttons than one would like it seems. The road is straight. Straight. The winding ones come after. And my tank is on empty. Empty notions of full tanks and nowhere to go but there. And alone and together. And alone. You see, my thumb is too green from planting my envy gardens to hitch a ride. But the highway is a sidewalk if you have enough shoes. And rain on black tops make rainbow puddles to study our dirty reflection in for the answers everyone else seems to see on our face. And the lightning is sharp and direct and strikes my core instantly. And once done, I am charred and burned. But with my own silver lining, it seems.

I will be your lightning rod.
But I am my own highway.  ¶ 4:00 PM