the car. i remember the color and
the way it smelled, the way it smelled
at night, with the windows rolled down
and that time we went to your dr's in
the pouring rain. you unbound your
hair and let it hang loose, like a shield,
like an umbrella in the rain.
there was that spot, that soft, soft
spot at the nape of your neck that
always seemed to draw my hands,
but you stood there, on the steps,
grinning at me in the rain, just before
you ran to the car. and i sat there
waiting for you, patiently. i was
still patient then, waiting for the good
things to happen. and you'd drive
so fast. you told me a story about
old people and the way they drive
and i was frightened, what did that
mean? that cruelty that was just
under the surface of you? i shook
it off and we cruised in the rain to
the sound of music from my past.
later, we parked in the place where we
met the first day and we necked. it was
delicious. you told me stories of other
lovers in other cars, though maybe it
was that car. i do not remember that,
just remember thinking, he has done
this before, and watching the smoke
of my doubt burst into flames.
one time you went into a store and i
went through the glove box, trying to
discover who you were, what you were.
but there were no secrets there, they
were all inside of you, well and
i wonder sometimes, does it show where
i spilled your drink in the driver's seat?
the look on your face, a second's hesitation
while the world started to tilt and blur around
the edges, would you be mad? but you just
put the towel over the spot and said not to
worry about it.
our drives were filled with madness. you
wanted to show me places i didn't want to go.
obscure, obscene places. you talked of paranoia
and of getting even, of things that could be done
to you to make you look bad in the eyes of others.
and all the while the houses and stores and bars
would rush past my side of the car and i would
just hold on and get lost in the sound of your
today there is not a car of that kind and color
that i do not see and think of you.
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