Asphalt.
It rained today. I could smell it through my office window— that hot, earthy smell rising from the property like the earth exhaling. I found myself jealous of the asphalt. Of every mile of blacktop that leaves this parking lot, threads itself through towns I'll never bother to learn, crosses state lines without asking permission, and eventually finds its way to you. Jealous that somewhere the same pavement is warming beneath your sun while mine is slick with rain. That it gets to exist beneath both our skies. That tomorrow you might step onto it without thinking. Press your weight into it. Leave something behind without ever knowing you'd made an impression. Asphalt is good at that. Taking the pressure. Holding the heat. Cracking quietly beneath the weight of everything that passes over it and still stretching itself mile after mile toward wherever you're going. Maybe that's why I'm jealous of the asphalt. It gets your footstep...
