I wore a black sundress. You wore baggy shorts held up at the waist with a worn leather belt. You had lost so much weight during the months you spent miles and memories away in the sunshine state and I wasn't sure who you were anymore.

Your car smelled like melted crayons in the summer heat. I folded myself into the passenger seat next to you and from a dog-eared book, read poetry aloud as we drove. You treated each ending with a silence that I had, at some point, thought profound.

You called me beautiful. I wanted to shake you, to point out my secret imperfections, to say "look at my crooked teeth that will never fit together like we do when you tuck my body into the curve of yours as we sleep."

Mostly though, I wanted to explain to you that poetry is nothing but words strung together, meaningless until breath is breathed into them and a heartbeat begins.

Tonight while you drive, I touch your arm, shoulder, thigh; I touch the parts of you that I can reach. The parts of you that I know exist simply because I can fe­el bones under skin.
 
In front of us the highway stretches on and on, to the point that I do not know if it ever plans on ending or simply dissolving into the dark like the red tail lights ahead of us continue to do.
 
I worry that I am everything the tail lights are not: stale and unmoving, pleasing to stay in one place. I worry that I am everything the tail lights are: speeding on past the point of now, all too eager to find something, somewhere.

Your hand tucked between my thighs tells me differently and anchors me to this place, with you. I try to circle your wide, flat wrist with my small fingers, knowing that they will never reach, knowing that they will never meet each other. I touch you because I am afraid that you are not real.