Whenever I drive past this spot the memory is like those long curling technicolor fingers: the aroma of a cartoon pie gathering up my thoughts, directing me to that memory again, where you touched me in the places where you promised you wouldn't, and my stuttering reluctances fell like loose change between seat cushions until I wore your hand on my face and erased my name. Whenever I drive past this spot I wonder if the alleys I see are darker or the shadows on me are longer and if the relection... read more
