Litany of the Known

The road unfolds like it always does,
a ribbon I have unspooled a thousand times.
Miles pressed into muscle memory,
each bend a promise kept.

The yellow lines flicker back my own headlights,
faithful as a doe’s eyes at night.
Like a bible, edges once gold,
gilding morning prayers.

I know where they go. I know where they end.
Frozen in burnished yarn
Knitted, parallel knots,
through the dark, real. 
Cast on pitch, every blacktop bobble
Points me home. 

Tonight, I am not chasing the unknown.
I want what is certain
Morning, spiced with coffee and solitude,
Vanilla steam ghosts over glass shower doors,
the first press of cool sheets against warm skin.

I love surprises, 
but not now.
Not here. 
Not on this road.

There is a kind of joy in knowing
what waits around the bend,
Meeting the familiar like an old friend
who never asks why you came, only
why you ever thought to leave.