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Twice.
Three times.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But it doesn’t.
It just echoes
off the windshield,
the dashboard,
the inside of my skull.
I shove the key in.
The engine screams to life,
knowing the routine by heart.
I tear out of the garage,
tires screeching
My heart does, too.
I floor it.
Fast.
Faster.
Fast enough to hope his voice won’t catch up.
“Baby... melting in my hands.”
The way he says it—baby.
It's as if my name still belongs to his mouth.
I press harder.
Gas pedal. Guilt. I crush both.
The sun slices through the windshield,
bright enough to blind,
bright enough to piss me off.
Sky’s too blue
and clear
