The car is spinning; she is a blur behind the wheel. She is everything you will no longer be. She has left you now. Glide. Glide. Glide.

You are in bed, home, scratchy wool blanket under your chin. This room, your room, is uncommon. The piles of books you almost read, ink stained papers, sentences, paragraphs in your handwriting, you recognize, but will not own. You have been broken new.

The car is spinning, you turn the wheel, glide, glide, glide on icing sugar street. Inside the cage, you slide, hit the curb and stop.

Awake. Fumble. Find your comb on the floor beside your feet. Pull the wild out of your curls. Push open the door. Breathe ice into air. Feel it all.

Gone.
You are here.