I sit there alone, burning through coffee as I remember the way we used to laugh in that little apartment four hours north of my heart. Faded skies and small town lights, those were our Friday nights.
It was a moment in time when you thought we had changed, but I knew the aftermath would leave me reeling as I tore the four walls apart.
Yet it is the haloed memories that numb me most — I would sit there behind the wheel of your Chevy Colorado, and you used to knock on your heart for good luck before getting into the passenger seat. County roads and 1 a.m. drives, that was the last July.
And though I no longer dream of that fork in the road, I miss the ghost of our once upon another time.
These days, I still knock on my heart before I merge onto the Gardiner, as though you’ve been there beside me all along.