Underneath piling gray slush,
ice seals the road like glass,
an unopened window to death,
spilling out to kiss
the shallow tread of my tires,
which meet the ice with no restraint
in the way their ceaseless spiraling
quickens the world
around my spinning car
as I realize the turn
from its forward progression
to twisted disregard
of the steering wheel I grip,
a faulty control on my life,
that, when I pull to set it straight,
only drifts further
into a memory of your flushed neck
pulsing against my cheek,
as I gently squeezed your upper arm
and heard your laugh
as though you were beside me now,
alternating both your hands
to turn the steering wheel faster
and drive circles
into the parking lot of snow
until I'd laugh and squeal,
“Enough, Kyle! Stop the car!”
and you'd finally slow down.
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