Borrowed Miles

The steering wheel is worn thin,

a slick groove under my palms,

the faint scent of your perfume

mixed with gasoline’s sharp bite.

Dashboard glows in late afternoon,

cracked cup holder holding crumbs

of other journeys, other hours—

this isn’t my road, these aren’t my miles.

I shift, the seat remembers you,

a quiet hum beneath my hands.

Empty streets stretch like questions

that I’m not sure I want to answer.

This borrowed car carries ghosts,

but I keep driving,

fingers clutching a steering wheel

that doesn’t quite fit.