the unrequited story

he always came to get me
in the middle of the night.
for this I was grateful.
I'm at least seventeen
by now, the oldest I had,
and maybe have, ever been.
he doesn't watch me
sneak out. he drives a stick
and I watch him shift,
knuckles taught as mine
across my lap. When he stalls
I do not laugh. We do not
kiss. We drive past places
where we lived and places
where we will. He does not
take my hand.

It looked almost enough
like love
for me to lose.