TAKING FLIGHT

nostalgic for a memory that hasn’t even happened yet and probably never will. something about summer. something about you.

i have this vague, static electric memory of a day we share together. we’re driving, well, you are— i’ve never liked being in control. the open road scares me, so you tame it. one hand on the wheel. i’m all tangled hair and sea salt in your passenger seat. red with love. my thumb finds the hollow of your dimple, staying there as if finding a temporary home. i trace it all the way down the interstate.

it’s memories like these— flashbacks that aren’t quite backs of anything at all. these moments aren’t caps, aren’t flesh, aren’t solid. flashes, yes, but without the implication of reality. because i know you’ll never love me like that. i know i’ll never make it to your front seat, that whatever passion you have for me won’t make it to the summer. or even the spring.

it’s okay. i close my eyes. we’re there. we’re 60 in a 45 and my hand is a bird flying right outside the window. and it’s the only thing fast enough to keep up.

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