I only text message women I like while I’m driving.  High speed driving, bleary eyed, trying to keep the rubber side down.  You’re not supposed to send text messages while you drive, but that’s when the romantic in me comes out.  It comes out between eight-five and one hundred and four miles per hour.  That’s as fast as I can get her to go.  Tailwind necessary. 

Only then, with the steering wheel seizing in my hands, can I find the right words for women.  The critical part of my mind must be occupied, dodging tow trucks and potholes, missing them by just enough.

The music needs to be full blast or dead.  Nothing in between works for me.  Demonic driving.  A thin cloth seatbelt in place to saw me in half on the diagonal like a peanut butter and jelly shared with a lover if a field of wildflowers.  Only then can I put quixotic words together.

On the brink of death and engine failure, smoke curdling in the exhaust pipe, I become a broken poet.  Flying in a thin line, using the shoulder, bending the steering wheel, wishing for glitches in time – I’m Cupids arching arrow.  There’s not enough time to make sense of it.  For a few dangerous moments, I can love like a stamped. 

The problem comes with getting the words onto the text screen.  One millimeter wrong, a fraction of an error and I’m toasted asphalt.  If only I could get one hand off the trembling wheel.  One hand, off the wheel, into my pocket, onto the screen – then I could remember how it feels.  The battle cry of the pistons mixing with the rush of warm air through the windows, it gives me butterflies.  It reminds me of those days when fireworks and French kisses were red and glorious.  It’s vulnerable, frantic, unforgiving.

My heart rate matches the rivets that separate the lanes.  It all feels like thunder from beneath the driver seat.  Focus on the road.  Where you want to go – not where you’ve been.  Tap the screen.  Expel affection through the fingertips.  If only I could look down at the screen.  See what I’m typing. 

On the highway, I’ve got stars in my eyes.  I smash the gas pedal until it becomes rose pedals.  Eternity sits in my lap.  I’m desperate to write something lovely.  Send something magical.  But the brake lights ahead pose the most immediate hazard.  I must tend to the wheel with both hands. 

Forgive me.  Your love letter was lost on the highway.