The wrong direction is in the rearview mirror; I’m screaming through night terrors; kill me softly with thoughts of leaving this small town, leaving Becca; she’s made her choice. I found my voice settled in the dust of a tiny mistake I made when the summer air passed through our fingers beneath the skeletal hickory tree. Becca has my memories weighted with concrete blocks. I can barely breathe and can hardly drive, windows down on the I-5. I went through the shoebox under her bed; I caught her red-handed and took her for granted. Becca’s light was on, knowing I was coming home.
(© 2022 AC)
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