lucky thirteen

let’s hit the road. (you never say it, but we go anyway)

and so we drive, winding through towns and cities. i left my sunglasses in that tiny cafe, and you bought coffee even as you said you don’t drink it.

we’re not running from anything but time.

skipping a day here, ignoring train timetables and boat routes in favour of museums and galleries and libraries. we’re cramming in a lifetime here, packing up years of memories into one month.

it’s our last month.

so we’re roaming the world, city-hopping at will and stumbling into motels at dawn.

we’re twelve countries in and time is running out, days blurring together like a movie motion. (if i stay awake long enough i can watch them flipping past)

and it’s the thirteenth country (but who’s counting?), we’re splitting breakfast to make money last –

you look at me:

“stay,” you whisper.