but it is through there that i see everything: a field outstretched, bending backwards as if to say come on, there is so much more of me. a sky so endless that by calling it endless you feel as if you’re granting it an ending; more finality in a place where that’s all there ever seems to be.
through my window i watch as we pass by city after city after town after small town after lone house, lone forest, lone gas station, lone person: dozens and dozens of tiny little almost-endings in a world that tries so hard to seem infinite, just to make us forget that the only promise it can ever uphold is that it's not.
i press my fingertips against the glass in hopes i can become just that, and then again, even harder.
a bump in the road always seems to lead to a crash—this is a lesson only learned by those who have stopped a journey to get out and stare at the stars. who have thawed with the pause, by the slow of empty promises, by the cease of moments left behind in rearview mirrors and on the sides of dirt roads.
if i could i’d remain still—never again having to feel the lurch of everything falling away.
of everything falling apart.
Montana Leigh Jackson is a student in Montreal, Quebec. Her work has been featured in semicolon lit, Ghost City Review, Turnpike Magazine, ENTROPY, & others. She finds peace amongst words and within thunderstorms. Find her on Twitter: @montanaLjackson.