By Dan Witherall
Low winter sunshine and rain spray tosses yellow glows around the road. I lose my grip on the wheel. I lose my grip on everything.
A lifetime of gestures, smells, laughs, tears, flickered away in one violent snap.
I will never taste the hot air of Virginia nor the cold winds of Everest; only the lips of lovers and the cooking of my mother.
Without a chance to stake my claim, I am banished to a world without the touch of another’s skin or the sweetness of pain.
I am pardoned, I am unchained.
I am endless, and I have ended.
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