Yellow Line, White Line

I’m looking out at the five o’clock winter. The retreating sunlight pulls the yellow and orange away from my car window, leaving things cold and in sorry shades of blue.

Yellow line, white line. Harsh electric glow of headlights on pavement and the steady hum of the radio in the backround of my mind.

So many years ago, or maybe it was hours, we drove on this road in a different car, listening to a different song. We were singing then, together and out of tune, but together nontheless. Windows rolled down, even though everyone told us it was too cold for that.

I never told you, but every night I drove home from your house, I hit all the green lights and I took it for some kind of sign.

Yellow line, white line. Red light. World comes to a stop and I’m holding my breath for you.

Your house is empty now, and I am a shell of myself, driving down our empty road, looking through a window that no longer belongs to you.

Tires beat out a steady rhythm, like a metronome.

Or a heartbeat.

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