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Stopped at a Green Light
In the accident that was our love affair,
I was the yellow bumper—
dust-covered and bright—
and you were the car rolling behind me,
the one that didn’t see my smoldering brake lights.
I still think about that jolt,
the way everything lurched forward,
and the distant sound of squealing tires.
In the dark,
I trace the numbers and letters of your license plate.
They confirm that I am branded.
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