Last November

I can't help but remember how I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned whiter than the lies you'd been living for the past week. 

You said you loved me.

  

Maybe it's the fact that a year ago I was losing sleep writing notes to you, thinking about how you hate your ears and feeling your rocky, almost-there five o'clock shadow graze my cheek. But now I'm here; a mosquito petrified in the amber of fallen leaves. I'm laying in bed with burning eyes just to listen to the silent screaming wind that takes me back to those summer nights, the feel of wet cotton against my face and the overpowering claustrophobic weight of pure darkness.