Your sleek, falling apart car.
I'm constantly on the lookout for it, anxiously awaiting the day when we bump into one another after all this time.
We don't live in that big of a city, and yet it hasn't happened.
I'm in constant fear of that occurrence, but I'm sickly anticipatory.

Today I followed a car that I could swear was yours for three miles.
It didn't have your signature license plate border, but I thrusted into auto-pilot and followed.
I followed past where I should have, hoping for a glimpse of your face, or even hand, so I would know you still exist.
So I would know you still exist outside of my mental concentration camp that I can't decide if you set up.
Or did I?

I craved seeing you.
I craved the whole feeling that seeing you might bring.
But I know it would only bring what I ached with after following whom might or might not have been you: dissatisfaction.
Dissatisfaction with you, with me, with the fleeting flings I've attempted to make myself feel whole with again.
Dissatisfaction with the strongly held belief, deep in my heart of hearts, that you were someone special.
You were someone special who I couldn't stop from slipping out of my grasp like sand.

The entire time, following that small black car, my heart was pounding on the inside of my ribcage.
I was on the verge of a cataclysmic breakdown of epic proportions.
I so wanted that driver to be you that I could almost smell your aroma of body spray and  hookah smoke.
I so wanted that driver to be you that I made her every movement similar to one you would make while driving to the amusement park or to get ice cream or as you would drive away at 1 a.m.