Dan Leach
Blue This is how it’s been ever since I was sixteen: you, lingering in the rearview; me, praying to the dash. The needle matches the number, the tags are paid in full, and I even hit the lights a good hour out of dusk. Anything for you. Yet still my stomach tightens when you appear beside me. A sickening sense of guilt fills the car like Freon, and I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve done something wrong, something deserving of lights, a siren, and—if I’m honest— so much worse than that.
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