That night in June,
pressed by acceleration
into the cream leather seat
of Mick’s Citroen,
there was nowhere
beyond our reach.
The wheels ate up
the twisting coastal road
and shat out strange Norwegian jazz
all the way to Valencia.
By dawn we were silent
and halfway to Barcelona.
I still had sand between my toes,
and strands of your long copper hair
caught between my fingers.
The taste of your cunt in my mouth,
and the smell of your Gaulouise
clinging to my cotton dress.
I left because the thought
of you leaving me
was unbearable.
Short but perfect. Reminded me of road trips with a certain lover. They were perfection. But, like your story, it all came to an abrupt end.