by Aleathia Drehmer


He smells of coffee
and cigarettes
as he grips
the steering wheel,
one handed
stiff armed,
driving 80 mph
down the empty

Windows rolled
all the way down,
my hair a whirling
in shuttered light
of overhead lamps.
Our faces small
pages of a flip-book
as our laughter
dances around
long silences.

His desire
to touch me,
kiss me
evident in the way
he leans into me
around the sharp
curves of the highway;
In the casual way
he misses my exit
and smiles
from the side
of his mouth.

I let him close enough
to feel the heat
of his skin
sweltering above
the oppression of
this southern night,
close enough to
keep him coming
back for parts
of me he
can never have.


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