We all need the same thing,
To be connected to her,
the validation that
we
mean something,
while I feel the way
road kill might,
long after the car
that ran me down
is long gone,
stuck with the vain hope
she might have lingering feelings
as she glimpses me
in the rearview mirror
neither of us certain
just who rode over whom
her screams from that night,
her report on her
standing on the edge of a roof,
haunting me,
evidence to suggest
she is not the
cold-blooded
hit and run driver
I might paint her out to be,
and if she flees,
It is because
She thinks she is the one
Who got run over
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