Demanding answers by rote

So you have to understand. There was this song. No, a series of songs. A whole album stole me. While I drove months down the curves of that road. To, past, from lovers who forget me still. Nights breaking the surface of a melody. Thin skin of ice meeting pavement and breaking where tires tear at frost. Who was she?

The soundtrack bubbles against a crush of bodies. Recorded piano glides between legs and sashays around hips; the silent clip of hard soles against harder concrete outside this microcosm on wires. We are all bound to this route. Lurching to predestined stops. Except when our our minds are overwhelmed with everything we’ve accepted. And we change the sign to flash SORRY, FULL. But not soon enough. Each thought grazes the knees of another, pressed thigh to thigh and arm to arm. Careful never to make eye contact, except in the briefest moments when your eyes make sense to mine.

These memories wander long. Time as convoluted as a cerebral cortex. Months still shiny under all the dust. Polished too smooth from too much tumbling. Does she remember who I turned out to be?