I hit the intersections where your shoulders meet your neck, passing through the car wrecks of ex-boyfriends who parallel parked on the dead ends. and I just hope your skin lends me an extra mile so I can slow down, take a while to admire the landscape, drape my arm over your being there. this time when it comes to your skin, I’m a drunk driver trying to walk a straight line.

I’ve been pulled over so much that your simple touch is enough to make me assume the position—wishing I could stay there, where your hand searches my body for contraband that could land me in the jail of your ribcage. Because road rage is a sickness and my medicine is your skin. I could spend the rest of my life circling the same block, wondering where does the world hide its private stock of people like you.