Lana Del Rey on Country Roads

Long, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last summer’s job, but that doesn’t matter with the windows rolled down, her hair blowing back; she doesn’t push it behind her ear, her hand is busy holding mine.

Lana Del Rey on the radio, turned as high as our consciences allow—

Going fifty on the small-town back roads, but who will care? There’s no one but cows to witness our transgressions. Nothing but anthropomorphism to signal our sin.

At home there’s college and work and decisions to be made—
Here there’s only the sunset over dry, empty cornfields and the rhythm of Tulsa Jesus Freak playing on repeat until I know it by heart, though I haven’t heard it before today.

Our own freedom thrums through these bony teenage bodies, and it’s clear we’ve only begun to explore. There’s so much left to learn, and so much time to learn it.

I turn Lana up a few degrees more
and step on the gas.