Feed on


It wasn’t like any other Sunday.

We’re up too early,

driving home in the sunrise.

Fingers wrapped tightly around

the steering wheel.

It’s worth it though.


There’s an entire ocean

in the space between the seats.

A space not breached by contact

or conversation.

March air

ruffles my hair across my face.


Words claw up my throat,

but I fight them down.

There’s so much I want

to say but can’t.

I can’t risk talking,

risk her not responding.


Her bag sits garish,

clasped on her lap.

White fingers on the handles,

matching mine.

Every minute

is agony and ecstasy.

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