i swear it changes after midnight

not the road itself
the road remembers exactly what it is

it’s the space around it that shifts

the mountains pull closer
the fog settles in the valleys like something breathing in its sleep
tractor trailers drift past like steel ghosts carrying things nobody asks about

if you’ve driven it long enough
you know the feeling

that stretch where your radio turns to static for no reason
the exit you don’t remember passing before
the headlights behind you that disappear the second you look directly at them

there are towns along 81 that feel borrowed
little pockets of light clinging to the dark
gas stations humming under flickering signs
diners full of people who stop talking when you walk in

i stopped once around 3am
somewhere between nowhere and somewhere worse

the clerk looked exhausted in the ancient kind of way
like he’d been standing behind that counter since the highway was dirt

he told me not to drive sleepy through the mountains

then quieter

“some things use the road too.”

outside
the fog had crossed all four lanes

and for one second
i could see a shape walking inside it
keeping pace with traffic

too tall
too thin
not trying to cross

just traveling