I was headed somewhere sensible, somewhere clean—
early mornings, responsible routine,
the whole sensible architecture of a life
laid out in straight lines and good decisions.
And then she appeared at the intersection
wearing next to nothing.
I jerked the wheel so hard
I cracked the windshield of my meaning.
She leaned against her car,
arms crossed beneath her chest,
and everything she pushed together
stopped my teeth
from doing anything but clenching
while my knuckles whitened,
and the wrong
has never felt
so right.
She climbed in on the passenger side
smelling like the sun—
warm skin, coconut, trouble in a single breath.
Bare feet on the dash.
Seat leaned all the way back.
I drove wherever she was pointing.
Never looked at the map.
Her hand found my knee at seventy
and I felt the highway shrink,
her fingers walking north
like she was pushing me
to every limit I had set
for how this night should end.
We ended up parked on a dirt road
with the engine ticking hot,
and she crawled across the console
like the passenger seat
was not enough room
for what she had in mind.
I forgot my plans.
Wrong turn, right woman.
Every road I ever knew
leads back to her—
everything I was
is just a blur.
I had a destination
and I burned it when she smiled.
Wrong turn, right woman.
I am lost for a good long while,
and I am never coming back again.