Amelia James Poetry

I remember driving to your parents’ house

like it meant something.

Like I was being invited in,

not just to your home

but to your life.

Windows down,

the smell of summer

climbing into the car like it had permission.

You reached for my hand

somewhere around First Ave

and I remember thinking:

God, maybe this is it.

Maybe I finally made it to the part of the story

where I’m not holding my breath.

I told myself I was safe.

I told myself

you were the kind of person

who doesn’t let someone drive all that way

unless they mean something.

But maybe I was wrong.

Maybe it was just a nice night.

A scenic detour on your way to someone else.

I still remember the music.

He is We on the stereo

I don’t play those songs anymore.

Not because they hurt.

But because they don’t.

And that scares me more.

-Amelia James