The key felt heavy then too light

The key felt heavy, then too light,

slipping from my fingers at night.

This car, a temporary skin,

smells faintly of where you've been:

a citrus cleaner, some kind of spray

that tries to scrub old doubts away.

Your seat is pushed too far back,

the rearview mirror needs a whack

to find my angle. In the visor,

a parking ticket, a small surpriser,

from two towns over, weeks ago.

A reminder of what I don't know

about your hurried, past mistake.

My coffee cup, for goodness sake,

looks out of place among your crumbs.

Another life, another hum

of highway miles you drove alone.

I'm just a temporary loan,

a stand-in for your absence, here.

The radio station's still unclear

to me, the presets all your own.

And suddenly I'm feeling known

by nothing but the road ahead,

and all the things that you have shed.