it's been four years,
give or take.

i still drive down streets at night,
see one [or many] go out,
smile, and think of you.

i remember you telling me,
"when i die, i want to have control...
over something mundane, over a
small thing no one would notice."

i said you were crazy for planning
that kind of futuristic *******.
"you'll change your mind,
by the time you die."
that's what i said.

you died two years later, and ****.
**** if you didn't have control.
two years after that, i saw it.
a streetlight clicked off right as i drove beneath it.
it happened at the next one, the next one...
and at the next one? only a flicker.

you always loved ******* with me.

it's been two years since the first light,
but four years since you took control,
and didn't even say goodbye.

it's been four years, and i've lost track.
i've lost track of sips and blinks and tears.
all i can seem to keep track of now...
is how many streetlights go out in a row.

five.