Someone mentioned your name yesterday,
and my nails dug into my palm,
the marks still present as I struggled out of a dream of you this morning,
asking myself why my impulse is still to punish myself for your presence in my subconscious when I am supposedly free?
The trains are fucked this morning and all I can do is recall how you insisted on driving,
donning a cool, calm persona as you pressed your fingertips to the wheel,
your nails digging into the leather as you find yourself aflame,
your eyes had stared a little too long at my legs,
and your lip was carved by your teeth.
We’re not so different, you and me.