When you left, you took the keys to your car.
The white minivan with the peeling paint still sits in the driveway
that I sat and drank root beer on at your wedding,
pretending it was alcoholic.

I hope someday you can commit to more than a call to your husband,
asking him not for forgivness for leaving and for never signing a divorce but asking him for $100 so you can continue running away from the life you still wear on a finger.

And I selfishly hope that someday you come find me
I deserve an apology for you leaving that car
and making me avert my eyes every time I drive by the house you up and left
so your ghost can’t stare me straight in the ******* face.