We’re the ten o’clock news bulletin past Dublin driving home before you slide in a CD. Blinded by the headlights from our oncoming thoughts. Have you…? Did you get the…? What time will…? Recapping the mapping of the following day we do every day.
A man in the background implores his Mother to make peace with her former husband in the Afterlife. It’s Neil Young. Holed up in a vocal booth singing dog-eared postcards from the edge of discovery. Down all the nights of his rookie days on the Canadian folk scene.
By the time we reach the bridge, we’ve observed an uninterrupted silence the length of impressed on first listen. Then I go and ruin it all by pressing repeat on his crackling take of Gordon Lightfoot’s If You Could Read My Mind. A movie queen to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me. Gets me every time.
If you could read my mind, you would see I recognise the sunset from journeys past. I’m behind the wheel pulling away from you. From another getting-to-know-you. Down all those nights of our equidistance days from Dublin. Blinded by the headlights from oncoming possibilities. Of what could be. Like you bringing some good things out in me. I imagine you crossing the bridge, reading your own mind. Replaying the lines that get you every time. Next Exit N9. I want to start over, I want to be winning, way out of sync from the beginning.
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