Counting

I smiled at the warmth and stillness that greeted me when I left the store. I opened my car door and put the key in the ignition and I breathed. It smelled so, so familiar-- my perfume mixed with the scent of summer and car and the air freshener swinging behind the ugly blue bird. How many times had I turned that key last summer? Thousands, at least.

For years, my entire life revolved around shifting in and out of park. It was exciting and it was lonely and it was nauseating. The trips "there" were always fine; it was the ride home that was responsible for destruction. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

I feel like these past few years define me. I remember places, but not names. I can't even count them. It makes me ill.

Tonight, the ride home is not very long but it is long enough, and now I have you and I have this radio, and I don't have to hate myself anymore because I could never hate anything you love.

How many songs are flung into the void nestled between hope and loss?


That is one answer I'll never care to know.