Drove down 

             the long stretch

             of a country road 

     with I             and I 

                            we call Memory 

                             in the passenger seat.

            Going back 

             to the house

     where we first met,

     hoping                to send me back.

        

    Should've

    known better,        the way I

                                 can be stubborn

    at attempts

    toward closure.

 

            The old house,

   with red shutters     instead of green,

            the same perennials

             and walk path,

   seemed smaller         than what I had

   told me.

            But the stories 

            matched.          I didn't want to stop

                                    talking about it. 

 

 Foolishly,

  I begged                  me to stay.

 

                                  But I will wither

                                  and disappear 

                                  without you.

 

  I took pity.              I was back in the passenger

                                  seat, louder and more open

                                  than ever.

                  

            The trip didn’t go the way

I had planned.