Driving into the mountains is always
remembering what I’d forgotten,
the air filling in something that had been deflated,
seeing them looming, heavy on all sides
pressing down into me
like I want.
Touching you, the weight of you,
body pressing into me,
I had wanted to be a city girl
but I am old enough to recognize myself.
Why does life have to be about space:
Too much, not enough,
some perfect ratio.
You would drive through this place.
You would drive through me.
Alone in the trees something comes to a rest within me
that was loose.

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