When you’re brushed
white on one side—so
the light catches, so I
lean over the wheel
to see you and swerve
and ride the line—I realize
I don’t know you like
I thought I did.
I misread
the angles
of your arms, where we’ll
eventually meet.
I’ll remember,
even when you wear
your flowering suit.
But I can’t promise
not to stare.
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LITERARY AGENT // WRITER
Literary Agent // Writer
