History

I shut the door to your van and without thinking, leave my hand on the glass, long enough to mark it. It's a trademark I have long since forgotten and it takes me back to airport corridors, hotel rooms and taxi windows. I stare through the hand-shaped clear patch at you, familiar you, stranger you.

You take the corner slowly, so slowly. Is it the snow, or is it...? I can't turn away. I watch your tail lights fade. Slowly. I know you're watching too.

I think "who is this man?"

You're thinking "who is this girl?"

We both know, we have become nothing more than faded photographs, carefully folded love notes, restaurant business cards.

And it breaks my heart.

I am nothing to you but history. And you are my her-story.