I borrowed my friend's car for a week

I borrowed my friend's car for a week.

It smelled like plastic and new leather,

like nothing had ever been inside it,

like the air itself was still deciding what to be.

This morning I got back in mine.

The smell hit me first—

stale, mixed with old coffee from a cup

I left in the cup holder months ago,

and the air freshener I bought two years ago,

barely holding on, the cardboard dried out,

the scent turned chemical and thin.

The dashboard has a crack in one spot.

The seat is worn smooth where my body sits.

I fit into this car like a memory fits into skin.

I drove to work the same way I always do.

The windows were down for most of it

because I couldn't stand the inside air,

but by the time I got there

I'd stopped noticing it.

I'd already forgotten what new smells like.

Now when I get in,

I don't even open the windows anymore.

I just accept the smell,

the staleness,

the sense that something inside

has already died.