Everyone had that song on their lips, all hands on steering wheels driving for miles on our perfect black creaseless road, sailing smooth alongside you, Beyonce, and your halo. We drove for miles, no one merging into or leaving, and just for a little while we were all one under pink and blue tie-dyed skies. Arm hairs on end as your voice glides along, piano, and it had nothing to do with the A/C being on and you left us all alone when the song was done. More bad karaoke miles behind and many more to go, so I think about the desolation of 99 Luftballons because truth is stranger than fiction. Not long before the driveway I hear Joe Walsh twanging All Night Long, and suddenly I want to be in a crowd chanting that little song to undo the sadness. I wondered if the notes came to him, leaping from string to string, in the middle of the night?
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