It's just a sudden snap
of memory,
a voice that echoes
from nowhere.
I release the breath
I've been holding
since aisle six,
when that song played,
or a stranger's hand
brushed too close.
The past barges in,
brutal and loud,
invisible and raw.
So I sit,
windows fogging,
hands trembling on the wheel,
hoping no one can see me
while the storm passes
through.
Then,
I start the car,
fix my face in the mirror,
and drive home
before the ice cream melts.
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