Hands steer on their own.
I don’t know, I don’t like having
high beams near trees.
sorry, you never asked.
Ears listen as you talk of
small and blank days
pushing swings with legs.
It could have been anyone.

you talk over the faint
melodies playing near me.
please, know that I’m trying
to turn the key. Ignition into G.
Em isn’t for everyone, but it’s what
uncolors their knuckles white- until
I ask them to
unfold one-by-one,
each finger’s frequency.

please, don’t accuse me
of severing the nerve endings.
Hands open on their own, after all.
I happen to be driving you back home-
you’re the one deciding
to kidnap yourself
with peppermint patties or
a denial dalliance.

Oh do tell, why am I the palm reader?
I silent. Eye reads the road.
I merely point my side
mirror towards you.