The Parking Lot
I love watching you drive away. The window on the side where I always park warps your face a bit, like maybe you’re a different You. And by different, I do of course mean exactly the same, just without Her. I’m better at talking to your brake lights than I’ve ever been at telling you anything important. Sometimes, when your car starts and you’re still picking a radio station, I think about throwing open my door and pounding on your window; you’ll roll it down and push up your dorky transition lens sunglasses and ask me what’s wrong, and I’ll finally tell you that I can feel you in every single heart beat I’ve had since the day I saw you. I’ll finally tell you that I’ve never had blood the color of someone else’s eyes pump through my veins before, and that that feels important. In this fantasy, you’ll turn the radio up and yell at me to get in, and we’ll drive off into a sunset unfettered by the ever-increasing smog that seems to envelop our town these days.
In that reality, you would get a restraining order, and the smog is still there.
In actual reality, I just stare at your car five days a week and wish I had met you a long time ago.