I drive west on an open highway with years of scorched asphalt and potholes of grave-deep memory every few miles behind me. She is the setting sun–brilliant gold and hot, so hot–hanging low in the sky.

It’s dangerous to travel at such speeds and so blinded, but I follow her onwards. She is radiant and warm and sends my darkest thoughts scurrying into darker corners. She gives me respite, no matter how brief.

On rolling hills, I lounge beneath her, and her rays kiss my skin until I’m branded with the outline of my clothes.

On quiet beaches, I walk the shore, and she warms the sand beneath my bare feet until I wash them clean in the gentle waves.

On café patios, I read beloved poetry, and within her light and her gentle comfort, I rest until I miss her too much to remain still.

The gas tank drains, but I do not want to stop for the night. She cannot fight her descent beneath the horizon, but I can fight the exhaustion weighing my eyelids, and push my vehicle past a few more exit signs, a few more off ramps. She will not ask me to stay, but she doesn’t have to. I press the accelerator.

She is a star–the brightest in the sky; my true north even as I drive west to seek her. I can’t see where I’m going in this fading twilight. I don’t know where this road leads. West. Only west. But she is my destination. Where she rests is where I, too, will find rest.

And I love her. I love her. I love her.