We haven’t moved in a while,
your hand still resting on
the gear shift when
you used to hold mine.
A time ago we loved to park
and watch others drive by and
gaze at each other’s features
instead of out our own windows.
We’d warm our hands with each other’s
and talk about everything and nothing.
But now we don’t know what to say
without consulting the manual.
I check the glove box for
a fast-food napkin and find
that CD you made me
when all we had was time
and our food wasn’t fast.
We would laugh with each other
over three-course meals and wine,
our cheeks rosy with the heat
of affection and not frostbitten
from too much time in the cold.
I wonder if your pinky will
ever brush mine with intent again
or if keeping our hands
to ourselves is best,
because this machinery is heavy
and so is what’s on our minds.
I put my gloves on and
change the radio station.
You turn it off because
you have a headache.
I look out the window
to catch your reflection.
The last time I gazed at you,
you said “what?” and I said “nothing.”
So I watch you from a distance,
a hand’s reach away.
I turn on the heated seats
and get goosebumps.
You curse about the traffic.
I remember when we
didn’t mind sitting still.