i am bone-deep exhausted (i will leave this somewhere far from home)

i remembered. your words are like
a crash cart — they jolt my tired heart back into
motion barely sufficient to keep me running;

i always wonder why i go to bed so late,
but i can never find an answer to
this comprehensive exhaustion;

and i feel bad, when i hear you sing songs about me, allegedly,
because that exhaustion draws me
straight home (my magnetic north)

and i just end up telling someone else
that i have to leave, and in my desperation
i forget about your songs

and all i remember is night driving,
an ocean of music and two yellow lines
for miles and miles and miles
and miles
and miles