IIIC.

Tonight the signs hanging out above the streets held an odd amount of unfamiliarity.
I drive on this cracking pavement every single day. I don't understand.
Tonight I held my breath as I slipped a piece of paper underneath that windshield blade.
You had held my naivety in your palms, rolling it over and over, and I was so grateful that you were fragile with it.
Atlanta's always chasing me, or at least that's what I say to myself after a glance in my rearview.
I told myself that the drive home had nothing to do with you, it had nothing to do with you.
But Jesse just kept screaming about how I will "Never get it right"
I guess I'll never get it, like I never got Freud, and I never got sunsets, and I never really got you.
Subtlety is such a robber, you know that? He steals the ones you love without a word.
The green and white of piedmont avenue bleed into archaic dotted white lines that guide my vision.
Shelve me. Please trust that I will not rust, and as discreet as I tried to be, I can not hold a candle to your disposition.
At sundown I expected nothing but your countenance, I sat by that window all night.
Good night to these broken boulevards, and farewell to these moving targets.