If there is nothing to write about I'll write about the scars across your face.
The way someone wrapped you like a birthday present and tied the ribbon so tight it left creases.
I'll wonder about the look on her face when she opened you up on her special day and decided you were not the gift she wanted.
The brass knuckle bruises that decided they wanted to stay forever under your eye, poisoning your reflexes whenever someone touched you there.
The washing machine and the corner table too.
The way she left you,
Or didn't.
If there is nothing to talk about I'll talk about the snow covered Subaru
The stigma of doughnuts- and the coffee much too hot.
I'll learn the patterns of your hands, the way they move when the windows let off steam, and the pace the wheel turns.
Nothing about the way we breathe is casual.