The car starts with the sound of wet pavement.

Cup-holder citrine,

back-seat leather jackets,

A Stranger in the Alps,

and me,

my CDs riding shotgun.

The windshield is cloudy,

lending itself to dreams of

sunshine, tall grass,

streetlights made to kiss under,

forests made to roam.

But I am here,

in front of my house,

lingering on winding roads

that match the curve of your smile, watching

houses without windows, and

couches without homes,

street signs I am meant to escape.

Waiting for desperate driveways

and the blinding flash of high beams

to send me home reeling.

I pass y(our) house

on the way to work,

some asinine hope

that you’ll see me

growing brighter

with each stop sign.

Sure as stone, I know that

when you come back I’ll still be here.