I’m in Denver right now, having driven through the whole state of Wyoming yesterday and slept on a couch in a small town outside Denver last night. Next is Kansas City, then St. Louis, Nashville, and home. Wyoming is a really beautiful state, and expansive in a way that New Mexico and Arizona weren’t for me. If you live near “rolling hills” take that kind of topography and expand it outward in all directions by about a million, and you’ll get an idea of the openness of Wyoming. The landforms are mostly buttes for part of the state, but then that transforms into hills the closer you get to Colorado. But it’s really beautiful, and the drive is the kind that is sort of calm and easy and smooth. Those kinds of drives are nice as the sun sets behind you.
My biggest wish on these drives, really my only wish, is that I had someone in the car to share it with. Not so that I’d have someone to talk to, or someone to share the driving with, but just so that someone else would be seeing the things I’m seeing. These kinds of things are better experienced by more than one person, I think, and it’s been hard for me to deal with being alone as I’m driving through all this strange and wonderful landscape. But I do think about people as I’m driving, and whether or not I think they’d enjoy the things I see, and I wrote this last night about one of them. I know it’s not very good, but I was tired since I’d driven for about 9 hours straight. There’s a reason I never write love poems and it’s because I don’t think I can write good ones. This one definitely isn’t good, but it’s honest, and I think sometimes with writing that’s all you can be.
This Really Isn’t About Kirsten Dunst
I drove east through Wyoming today
As the sun was setting behind me
I put on music to fill my car
and wished I had someone to share it with.
I thought about you.
I’ve thought about you this whole trip, actually,
whenever I’ve seen something new.
I’ve thought about your dark hair and your secret-keeping smile
and how I wished I could share these things with you
because I think you would have liked them.
I thought about the first time we met
at your house.
I liked you as soon as you opened the door
and later I kind of thought I might
have caught you staring at me for a second.
I hoped I caught you.
I know these kinds of poems can be cliche
and this probably isn’t even a love poem at all.
But I’m interested in and attracted by everything about you.
You don’t know any of this because I haven’t told you,
but to play off the last line of the previous stanza,
I hope I catch you.