Great American Novelist

By the end of the day
I’ll have nothing to say
Rustling like leaves on the old highway
You looked like the sun, so I had to look away
I’ll move in pages again
Symphonies to amend
Traded in my dialogues for paper and pen
Living in crisp manuscripts till the end
You drove me to this
The great American novelist
Fictionally you fly
Pan American lines
Seatbelt signs are blinking now in perfect time
Your oxygen mask swaying from side to side
You drove me to this
The great American novelist
And I’m writing it all down
So it won’t follow me around anymore
I’m falling off the map
And never coming back again
But this is my novel