The Sun Beats Down

The sun beats down on the weather-torn road.

Plants withstand the heat, but barely, curling up and turning brown as the weight of the heat slowly suffocates,crushes.

No one spends much time here.

Tar fills in gashes, cut deep into the road, and paint peels up from the lines stretching further down the road than any person would dare go, could dare go.

The field extending for what looks like miles is endless, but somehow remains empty.

Somewhere in this measurable infinity there is a folder.

Manila, that’s the original color. Now it is likely brown, or grey, or lacks a color at all.

Somewhere, there is a car.

The driver, slowly drifting off.

Her hands shake and she fights to keep her eyes open but the car swerves anyways.

The car swerves and it careens, somehow, off of the road, endless and yet finite all in the same breath.

The road, with its tar cracks and its suffocating heat and its endless hiding places, endless secrets, moves on.

Shaking hands, twitching eyes, quick breaths.

Hours later, a siren.

Urgent, too late.

She does not move on, and the road remains.

Infinite and finite, all in one breath.