Let me trim your shadow

My tires swerve to avoid your blind spots, mirrors
tilted I tap two smokes up the yellow line.
"Can you count my fingers, baby? How about if
I hold them here?" The mission? Simple. This
is no return of the queen. This is a minor

glitch in your aqueous humor. No surgical precision,
no sweatneck apologies, no flowerbox reunions. Just this:
A jump between headlights. Did you miss
my shadow? Just this: A proud movie extra beams

onto the scene. She disappears through a steam-cloud
while the one-armed heroine takes the last train home.
Darling, don't you miss those spaces in between?