Second Star Detour: Fairy Land, Regrettably

I planned a road trip, but then haphazardly decided that I would take a detour.\nThe scenic route—long and winding—I decided that solitude was the cure.\nA perfect time to rest while healing; a moment of fun meant to unwind and reassure.\nI took a left—in retrospect, it was probably a decision made slightly premature.\n\nInstead of turning around, I decided it was best to keep moving forward.\nEach mile was another decision made—every acre, a memory I hadn’t yet sorted.\nI’d been driving for so long that the nature around me started feeling distorted—\nHighway dissociation: brain and body disconnect, and suddenly I’m transported.\n\nWith the music blaring, my mind distracted, I guess I somehow missed the signs of warning.\nI had driven through the night until the sky above turned rosy—\nAnd the loud chirping of birds reminded me that the world was transforming.\nEverything seemed to be going exactly as planned—until suddenly, my tire exploded.\n\nI guess all of the miles had finally caused damage—or maybe the road had eroded.\nI stepped out, not onto gravel, but something softer—like memory dressed as terrain.\nThe trees leaned in like old friends with secrets, and the wind called me by a forgotten name.\n\nI know this place… I just can’t seem to understand why, but my senses are set aflame\nA familiar scent—so similar that you’re left to wonder if it was really the same.\nThe sky felt heavier here, like it carried the weight of stories never spoken,\nAnd the ground held echoes of laughter—fractured, but never quite broken.\n\nThere were footprints that danced too lightly to belong to anyone grown,\nAnd a shadow that flickered near mine, though I swear I was standing alone.\nI took a slow breath through my nose, steadying myself, trying to cope.\nThen came a sharp trace of cologne—just enough to stir memory and hope.\n\nIn my mind, a memory—fleeting and soft—of a lamp no longer lit, finally out of watts.\nMy stomach knotted, my vision blurred, until my eyes caught those little white dots.\nFrantically, I’m turning my mind in search for an exit from this inconvenient twist in plot,\nLost inside of an army green—a dusting of pixie dust—a feeling that I never once forgot.\n\nA forceful fall into memories that I buried in my backyard—you’d recognize the spot.\nStanding frozen in the same place from before—you’d think enough distance would break the lore.\nWhispered lies flying through the air as the wind shook me to my core.\nI reach behind me—my hand seeking the cool comfort of the handle for the door.\n\nBut the handle feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore.\nA shiver crawls across my back as the forest begins to implore—\nLeaves rustling warnings in a language I almost understand,\nWhile something glints in the corner, something between a promise and a reprimand.\n\nI closed my eyes just long enough that when they opened, I found myself in fairy land.\nMy shoes and socks now left filthy—covered in the unexpected sand.\nI know the location, but if I was being honest, this wasn’t part of today’s plan.\nA second slipped away—then he appeared: a silhouette, a man.\nWell, I guess you could call him a man—but really, he was just a boy reaching for my hand.

Stars twinkling above me—guiding me down the empty road\nNo street signs, no lights—just the hum of the engine, and the headlights’ bright glow\nMy foot heavy on the gas but somehow we’re still moving too slow\nPulling over at the edge, looking down—thousands of feet now below\n\nA moment of silence, nothing heard but the chirps of cicadas and lost memories\nSitting quietly below the glittering darkness, constellations full of unsolved mysteries\nand for the first time in years I’ve decided to sit down and examine the long journey\nWatching before my eyes as the scene before me unfolds—so full of life it feels otherworldly\n\nThe first stop along the way was when I was only eighteen years of age\nBefore I understood that love was not something dressed in pain\nand that sometimes the only answer for safety is to choose to walk away\nA promise means nothing if it continuously causes your mental health to decay\n\nHow many nights alone on that bathroom floor did I hide in wait?\nHow many times did I call it love and how many times did you claim it was a mistake?\nHow many times would I have to watch your fist smash through walls near my face?\nThe past has come and gone, but the truth is often something even time can’t shake\n\nFive years came and went, until I packed up my car—three bags and what still remained of my dreams\nNo longer accepting hostility as something to be tamed or to be embedded into routines\nSo down the road I drove, listening intently to the whispers of screams\ndancing around the sedan, louder than the voice in my head, now blinded by passing high beams\n\nI followed the trail of stars whispering above—a new journey, a new tale, a new me\nNo matter how far I run, in my head I still hear the sounds of your insults and screams\nAn empty stretch of road, until suddenly I see a white truck pull up, now haunting my dreams\nI didn’t brake, I didn’t shout my questions, but my biggest gift was never the art of subtlety

Have you ever tried to love a wild beast?\nWhile you hold tightly they beg to be let free\nAlways left alone with the choice try harder or let them be\nThinking that solving the dilemma would be the missing key\n\nI was once told to not open my eyes too wide—there’s certain things you can’t unsee\nAt the age of fifteen standing on a rooftop, I thought I understood so I agreed\nAnother skyline, another place in time, another hour spent looking down at the concrete\nA full circle moment in time that still manages to feel halfheartedly incomplete\n\nLooking back— some of my most important moments happened looking down at the street\nLost somewhere between the skyline and looking down at the ground beneath my feet\nBasking in between chasing a win and carefully avoiding inevitable defeat\nThe truth is a lot of things, but more often than not it’s not known to be discreet\n\nHovering over the line that allows relief instead of a too long withheld scream\nA repetition of trying to outrun the statistics of someone from my scene\nHow much time was spent trying to make sure that my life didn’t fit the standard theme\nKeeping myself safe from a world that never wanted me to be heard or seen\n\nLike a thread that spent a life trying to escape from inside of the seams\nIt all comes back to me underneath the stars— the tugs of a long lost dream\nI somehow always find myself lost; tucked away inside moments of the between\nWisdom I couldn’t yet grasp as I stood on that roof at fifteen\n“Don’t open your eyes too wide, sometimes there’s things you can’t unsee.”

“It’s like howdy—but with a G,” you shouted, stoic, above the noise of the bar.\nA drink in my hand, your hand on my back—I followed like the North Star.\nWhile I stood alone, a girl stumbled toward me—“You love him, don’t you?” A strange sidebar.\nThe humid air smacked us in the face as we stepped off the curb toward your car,\nCobblestones catching my heels—but you just laughed, said, “Don’t worry—it’s not far.”\n\nWe were drunk kids dancing in city lights, waiting for the song to find its end,\nMixing pieces of peace and chaos until we thought we’d made the perfect blend.\nNever bothering to count the days or nights together we continued to spend—\nJust secret pages in a chapter we kept writing, hoping time would suspend.\n\nSitting on a metal chair, listening to cicadas beneath the full moon sky,\nWe tried to avoid the last page—what we feared was a final goodbye.\nYears passed slowly—loud music, state lines, a four-hour nighttime drive,\nWeekends spent hiding away in Charlotte—I always left, but I never arrived.\n\nSometimes I wonder why it’s these pages within the chapter that I spent so long trying to hide—\nThe punctuation to sentences that I don’t think I ever actively decided I was going to write.\nWith you, I never had to worry about what was right—\nIt was just you, me, and quiet smiles.\nMoments that slipped between our fingers, even when we were holding them tight.\n\nAn ocean of history—yet somehow, you still feel more like an enigma or an unsolved mystery.\nA game of chance that leads neither of us to a loss nor a hard-earned victory.\nTaking a ride down a slope that you already know was made just a little too slippery—\nTwo lanes of traffic that always seem to merge in a way that’s contradictory to positive synergy.\nEvery exit led me back to you—call it history, call it muscle memory.

A car ride cut short— I was always bad about driving around you\nThe first time was on the way for ice cream— almost missed a red light\nThen came the rental, a five-minute trip that ended with a flat tire\nMoments that we both watched come until they finally decided to go\n\nA night that ended up in a search for what we thought was a missing part\nA haphazard attempt at describing the era of what had been us from the start\nA conversation that occurred every few years— stop and enjoy the wins\nI don’t think either of us knew where the story would end— just the repeated cycle of begins\n\nThe story is still being written but words stop forming a few pages before\nAn attempt to capture the magic hidden in three thousand sixty-five pages of lore\nAt this point, you’d think that the pages were too fragile to continue to explore\nToo many locks and chains that were installed into the hardwood door\n\nWith age comes wisdom— or maybe that’s just what I had been hoping for\nRed flags that I spent too many years trying to decide whether to bury, fix, or learn to ignore\nRe-reading a page because you don’t know what the next one has in store\nFinding solace in the comfortable— playing solitaire to avoid a potential of war