If I ride this road five hundred more,
still your porch-light burns through every mile I’ve roared.
Dust on my boots, your name in the roar,
I left to find the world—found the world ain’t yours.
Every echo of the engine is a prayer I compose,
counting white lines like rosary beads on the black ribbon road.
When the odometer rolls to zero again,
I won’t need no map—your heartbeat’s my only destination.