Keep in Mind

Like the quick snap of a limp branch, her head whips around.
cars fly by, a blur of colors and metal doors and people within them.
"It wasn't him," she reminds herself. "He's not here."

But she can't help imagining him in that car; where he is driving to, and to who.
Can't help feeling the pressure of his fingers against hers, his skin like sandpaper.
Can't help looking to the passenger seat.
Can't help seeing him everywhere, through every car window, at every red light, in every flash of four doors and black paint.

But they no longer sing songs in between destinations anymore.
And the faceless driver of the black escalade is no longer the boy she loved.

Keep in mind that he drives to new places now.
Keep in mind that if he wanted to drive back here, he would.