Each dusk
I always made
sure he left before me.
I'd throw my Pontiac
into reverse, then lurch forward again,
just in time to see him off.

The problem was
he always sped. I knew
I'd never catch up, save
for a few red lights. But just as his
face flashed its silhouette in his side mirror,
off again he'd rush, away
from me.

The fluorescent crimson of his distant
tail lights made my eyes ache, burned the soles
of my feet.
His lips were against my neck. He
mouthed consent-- knew I'd follow.

I hurtled on,
through twilight fog and mist,
feeling his insistent music
kick my speakers.
His breath in my ear.

At the roundabout he
finally escaped up a pine
shrouded hill.
I craned my neck at his parting,
the mist stiffening into frost.

I guess it hit me, then.
Slapped me in the face, really.
How could I chase what
was all around me.

He was the haze

on my windows,

the taunting brake lights, the
claustrophobic dusk.
I was racing through
and past him.
Trying to prove, for
my sanity,
that tonight he recognized me

in his rearview mirror.