I stood at the end of the boulevard, watching you write letters onto the foggy windowpane as the car rolled away. Those words form the oldest of my haunts – as though it is time, and not our last night, that has made me bitter.

In that moment, I almost let go of the city lights that have long consumed my youth. For a fleeting minute, I slowed down on the interstate, willing the gears to shift, motions to collide. Yet, I found myself back on the same driveway that has marked my steps since we were nineteen.

In the back of my mind, you still exist as you did in those fragments of time. Forever young, and untouched by the nights in Daytona that nearly paralyzed us.

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