We listened to music that once played
At the house parties our parents
Weren't allowed into.
We were
Clasped around each other like nervous fingers,
Taking months to finally melt into one rhythm -
The rhythm to a song I'd listen to doing the dishes
In Maine,
The mountains furry with trees,
My hands dripping water over the sink.
I'm not sure what first drew me to you.
Maybe it's the same sort of pull that my fingers get to press on a bruise.
But I
Spent years reaching over the center console to
Console your center
And to be close to you even though
You said I'd probably have killed at least
Four people with my car by the time I was 25.
Since you left,
I still haven't gotten in any car accidents.
But I think about crashing all the time.
It might feel the same as it once did to brush by you:
Violently and with no room for other thoughts.
