My phone recommends that I take
College or Keystone Avenue
when I get in my car.
It still thinks I have plans to see you.
My phone does not know that
I no longer take the roads
that run parallel to a bed we shared.
I merge into the traffic on the highway
and my phone no longer recommends
the fastest route to you.
My car communicates with my phone enough
to know that things are not the same.
I leave the grocery store.
It is still a habit to drive near your street and wonder how you are.
I wonder how you are spending your nights without me.
I picture you boarding a plane in Indianapolis
responding to a text from me:
“Safe travels! California will look good on you.”
I want to forget about how you spent your time.
I just know that those few days without me
were enough for you to decide.
I wish you would have warned me
that my plans for us when you returned
were no longer needed.
I wish you would have warned me
that you had made up your mind.
It is the least you could have done.