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There's not much love for travelers when the night is starless.
Sleep claws at eyes, yawns drag in oxygen— weariness rewinds the gossip
like a cassette, blaring out half-truths already accepted by the world,
but never accepted by the newly-christened vagabond. The void-eaten road makes it hard to tell the difference between reflective tape and nightshine stares.
They don't quite know where they're going, hands limp on the wheel like an un-strung
puppet given very little reason to wonder, very little reason to remain
in such a place. Tires crush fast food wrappers and the missing digits of a large tree where only a jagged stump remains.
on a cloudless night, they might have allowed for a glimpse into the cosmos, but only a starless
inkwell reflects back the traveler's mood. Maybe they wouldn't be so panicked if they weren't strung
out on a missing week's sleep, dreaming to be woken by birdsong instead of the chirping gossip
that made its way to their door, failing report card, met only with judging stares—
an open hand claps across a cheek, powerful enough to turn one's world
upside down. A bat hangs upside down from a tree, pedal meets floor as the blank GPS gives options of where else in the world
would be safe to lay their head. Green and white signs peel away: "Rest stop in 5 miles!" "Remain
on this road for 40 miles until the city!" Every pair of headlight stares
its deadlight glare through the fogged windshield, make their own stars when the night is starless.
Tire treads slip, grasp the slick road, the rubber gossips
with the asphalt as the car veers right to avoid each beam. Strung
out on adrenaline, nature loses its wonder. The flowery vines strung
between guardrail posts only serve to kiss the passenger side, and warn of the end of the world
lying down below. Fantasies begin to seep in: the drop is quiet, clean in all but the gossip
that will obfuscate the tin can and cloth remains,
but not until morning, when the starless
night gives way to morning, and the gentlefolk of the forest give their beady stares—
Down the road, out of the range of the high beams, a grand figure bows and stares.
He is not so dissimilar to a human, only unknowing in the way one strung
out may greet their surroundings with wonder and curiosity. His black eyes are starless,
only reflecting back the spotlight finally put onto him by the world.
He doesn't know what these aluminum beasts leave in their wake, what remains
as their roars drown out birdsong gossip
that have already fated this encounter far before it would ever be set in motion. Radio gossip
narrates the scene, as somewhere, the stares
of an unknown audience cause the driver to remember the pairs of knowing eyes; they remain
ingrained in the memory nearly as deep as the dents when acquaintances meet, when fuzzy dice strung
around the rearview roll snake eyes, and the world
accepts this without care— thus are the stakes when the night is starless.
Little will remain, and the asphalt encounter will be remembered in gossip
as others traverse the starless expanse, their stares
inferring the story of the strung out driver, and the buck who returned them to the world.