we went for a drive, once, in late spring.
i told my mother i was seeing a friend. you told your pops you were seeing a girl.
i parked behind our local grocery store three minutes before six-thirty. you pulled up beside me three minutes after seven.
you kept your hand on my thigh, and when i laced my fingers in yours, you didn't let go. you told me you had a spot, but we couldn't find it - even in the summer sunlight.
so we parked by a mountain and climbed in your backseat, instead.
beforehand, you took off my shoes - side by side, like a habit. during, you pushed my hair from my face - carefully, like i was glass.
afterward, you cradled my head to your chest, and i watched you pluck threads from the cloth ceiling of your Buick.
"this means nothing. this means nothing. this means not a single, goddamn thing."
you didn't say goodbye when you dropped me off.
(but you did kiss me, soft and slow. and you looked me dead in the eyes, a frown on your brow, and said,
"please. text me when you get home.")