Sat. the 30th
I was parked on the 3rd level but I kept climbing, breathing my way to the 5th. The door was a grimier version of what I remember. You’re parking spot is taken by a Range Rover. Black. Spotless.
Somehow, I think you’d hate that it wasn’t an old Bronco or something vintage cool––or maybe it’s me whose pissed at the imported flash of it. I think about scratching the sides but chicken out.
Instead, I rub my sweaty palms all over the windows, smearing my loneliness on the glass. I try and leave it there, but it follows me like old mail that shows up in the box no matter where you move.