When I realized that I wanted to follow you home in my car, stealthily weaving in and out of the lanes behind you on your way home from work, I did the only thing I could think of to stop myself: I drove my car into a cement wall.  But instead of breaking my resolve all I broke were my sunglasses.  It seems unfair that the only way I know I’m over you is when it no longer matters that I tell you. 

I thought I might be able to try again and then I realized that it’s not so much you that I’m holding onto, but me.  I’m afraid of losing her again.  Because I’m strong but only when I’ve had time to train, and I’m well-spoken but only when I’ve had time to rehearse, and I stand my ground, goddammit, but only when I’ve been given the time to plant my feet.  And that was something you never had: the time.

Later, I drove through town with my bumper scraping the asphalt bringing a spark back to my eyes, and rolled the window down to let some air back in my lungs.  The crumple of the hood felt like the release a cutter must feel when the blade glides over her thigh.  "Oh there you are," I thought, I can breathe again - I can see you for who you are again.